(for the parents of a pupil who died tragically.)

“Fly high, my son, fly high
To where your song began”.
That precious grain of wheat
Sown now so very deep
In that mysterious field
Will yet its secret harvest yield.
“Your love, my darling boy,
Your life, your brimming cup of joy,
Up many a rugged steep
Will speed our quickened feet
To where all songs began
And where they never die”.