"Our tears are our highest form of worship."  _{-Larry Crabb}

Through this world we pass but lightly

And swift we leave this veil of fears

Though a life should burn so brightly

Oh we can but see it in our tears

Hush for you are only sleeping

Before you cross those white frontiers

And we should leave behind our weeping

For how can we see it in your tears

And if you're out there somewhere waiting

Standing in the sun so silent no one hears

Then speak my name so we can find you

For how can we find you in our tears

Fare thee well good friend and true

Go safely on your way

May the road rise up to you

To show to end of day

May the wind be kind to you

The paths before you too

and if the night should find you

may the stars look down on you

If the night should find me

may the stars look down on you

Speak my name so we can find you

For how can we find you in our tears

It is only through my tears that I have seen the wonder in my life.  It is only in my tears that I have caught a glimpse beyond this veil of fears. 

And through those same tears I came to know you.  Yes, it is through my tears that I have seen your loveliness and grace.  And oh, the beauty in those tears. 

Alas though!  You have passed beyond the white frontier and now it is this veil of tears, the very thing that helped me see, that blinds my eyes to you.  

But I can't stop sobbing for I long to see—to touch—to hear you.

The tears that opened my heart here must darken your eyes there for you are like a butterfly waking from a dream.   So don't cry now—leave behind your weeping, look around and speak my name.  Perhaps then I will find you—perchance I'll even find you through my tears.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

                                            _{-WH Auden}