Fear no more the heat o’ the sun;
Nor the furious winter’s rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney sweepers come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dread thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
I’ve been there. Standing outside a funeral home as pallbearers loaded a coffin into a hearse. A coffin in which lay a beautiful laughing woman, while mourners stood about, dumb-founded, in shock, dismayed – wondering how it had happened, wondering if only they had done something, anything. How could we be here? Only nine months earlier, this beautiful woman with a laugh that filled a room had been a bride. We, the mourners, had gathered together to celebrate a wedding. She had been so happy, laughing, toasting her big day with champagne.