mary noel meigs. 
461 
Type of a purer clime 
Beyond the flight of time, 
Where the amaranth flowers are rife 
By the placid stream of life. 
For ever gently flowing; 
Where the beauty of the rose 
In that land of soft repose, 
No blight nor fading knows 
In immortal fragrance blowing. 
And my prayer is still to see 
In thy blessed ministry, 
A transient gleam of regions that are all divinely fair; 
A foretaste of the bliss 
In a holier world than this, 
And a place beside the loved ones who are safely gathered 
there. 
