Obituary of Brannon Brady Morgan
No, not cold beneath the grasses,
Not close-walled within the tomb;
Rather, in my father’s mansion,
Living in another room.
Living, like the one who loves me.
Like yon child with cheeks abloom.
Out of sight, at desk or school book,
Busy in another room.
Nearer than the youth whom fortune
Beckons where the strange lands loom;
Just behind the hanging curtain,
Serving in another room
Shall I doubt my Father’s mercy?
Shall I think of death as doom,
Or the stepping o’er the threshold
To a bigger, brighter room?
Shall I blame my father’s wisdom?
Shall I sit enswathed in gloom,
When I know my love is happy, waiting in another room?
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