The words still live, though flesh must die;
Soft rot, like pumpkins left to lie,
While objects coarse succeed our death-
Naught is left of our brief bequests.
But up in heaven, in god's own eye
Is a sparkle, that is loath to die-
And if god wills it- if god weens-
That tiny light may still be seen.
Patti Masterman
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/living-light/
