Messages from a funeral home page

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all.

So huge, so hopeless to conceive as these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven, and all we need of Hell.

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.

Such songs have power to quiet the restless pulse of care, and come like the benediction that follows after prayer.

Music, when soft voices die, vibrates in the memory -- Odours, when sweet violets sicken, live within the sense they quicken.