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<blockquote data-quote="Brennin Magalus" data-source="post: 1787370" data-attributes="member: 13103">Kyle,I am very sorry to read about your son's death. I lost my father when I was 12, and I am still not over his death, nor will I ever be. I find comfort in the poetry of Longfellow, who was a great man who suffered much but bore his pain nobly:Light of StarsThe night is come, but not too soon;And sinking silently,All silently, the little moonDrops down behind the sky.There is no light in earth or heavenBut the cold light of stars;And the first watch of night is givenTo the red planet Mars.Is it the tender star of love?The star of love and dreams?O no! from that blue tent above,A hero's armor gleams.And earnest thoughts within me rise,When I behold afar,Suspended in the evening skies,The shield of that red star.O star of strength! I see thee standAnd smile upon my pain;Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,And I am strong again.Within my breast there is no lightBut the cold light of stars;I give the first watch of the nightTo the red planet Mars.The star of the unconquered will,He rises in my breast,Serene, and resolute, and still,And calm, and self-possessed.And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,That readest this brief psalm,As one by one thy hopes depart,Be resolute and calm.O fear not in a world like this,And thou shalt know ere long,Know how sublime a thing it isTo suffer and be strong.ResignationTHERE is no flock, however watched and tended,&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; But one dead lamb is there!&nbsp; &nbsp; There is no fireside, howsoe’er defended,&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; But has one vacant chair!&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The air is full of farewells to the dying,&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; And mournings for the dead;&nbsp; &nbsp; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Will not be comforted!&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Let us be patient! These severe afflictions&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Not from the ground arise,&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; But oftentimes celestial benedictions&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Assume this dark disguise.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Amid these earthly damps&nbsp; &nbsp; What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; May be heaven’s distant lamps.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;There is no Death! What seems so is transition;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; This life of mortal breath&nbsp; &nbsp; Is but a suburb of the life elysian,&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Whose portal we call Death.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;She is not dead,—the child of our affection,—&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; But gone unto that school&nbsp; &nbsp; Where she no longer needs our poor protection,&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; And Christ himself doth rule.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;In that great cloister’s stillness and seclusion,&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; By guardian angels led,&nbsp; &nbsp; Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution,&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; She lives whom we call dead.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Day after day we think what she is doing&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; In those bright realms of air;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Behold her grown more fair.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken,&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The bond which nature gives,&nbsp; &nbsp; Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; May reach her where she lives.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Not as a child shall we again behold her;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; For when with raptures wild&nbsp; &nbsp; In our embraces we again enfold her,&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; She will not be a child;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;But a fair maiden, in her Father’s mansion,&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Clothed with celestial grace;&nbsp; &nbsp; And beautiful with all the soul’s expansion&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Shall we behold her face.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And though at times impetuous with emotion&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; And anguish long suppressed,&nbsp; &nbsp; The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; That cannot be at rest,—&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;We will be patient, and assuage the feeling&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; We may not wholly stay;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; By silence sanctifying, not concealing,&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The grief that must have way.</blockquote>

[QUOTE="Brennin Magalus, post: 1787370, member: 13103"] Kyle, I am very sorry to read about your son's death. I lost my father when I was 12, and I am still not over his death, nor will I ever be. I find comfort in the poetry of Longfellow, who was a great man who suffered much but bore his pain nobly: Light of Stars The night is come, but not too soon; And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven But the cold light of stars; And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars. Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? O no! from that blue tent above, A hero's armor gleams. And earnest thoughts within me rise, When I behold afar, Suspended in the evening skies, The shield of that red star. O star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain; Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, And I am strong again. Within my breast there is no light But the cold light of stars; I give the first watch of the night To the red planet Mars. The star of the unconquered will, He rises in my breast, Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm, and self-possessed. And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, That readest this brief psalm, As one by one thy hopes depart, Be resolute and calm. O fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong. Resignation THERE is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there! There is no fireside, howsoe’er defended, But has one vacant chair! The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mournings for the dead; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted! Let us be patient! These severe afflictions Not from the ground arise, But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise. We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven’s distant lamps. There is no Death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death. She is not dead,—the child of our affection,— But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule. In that great cloister’s stillness and seclusion, By guardian angels led, Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution, She lives whom we call dead. Day after day we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Behold her grown more fair. Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken, The bond which nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, May reach her where she lives. Not as a child shall we again behold her; For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her, She will not be a child; But a fair maiden, in her Father’s mansion, Clothed with celestial grace; And beautiful with all the soul’s expansion Shall we behold her face. And though at times impetuous with emotion And anguish long suppressed, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, That cannot be at rest,— We will be patient, and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay; By silence sanctifying, not concealing, The grief that must have way. [/QUOTE]

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