Sweet as wood dove’s note when calling
To her mate as night draws on,
Soft as snow flake lightly falling
Come the voices that are gone.
Voices heard in days of childhood
Softly at the hour of prayer,
Or loud ringing through the wildwood
When the young heart knew no care.
So when life’s bright sun is setting
And ist day is well nigh done,
May there be no vain regretting
Over memories I would shun;
But when death is o’er, to meet me
May some much-lov’d forms come on,
And the first sounds that shall greet me
Be the voices that were gone!