The spirits of the loved and the departed

Are with us, and they tell us of the sky,

A rest for the bereaved and broken-hearted,

A house not made with hands, a home on high;

Holy monitions,—a mysterious breath,—

A whisper from the marble halls of death.

They have gone from us, and the grave is strong,

Yet in night’s silent watches they are near;

Their voices linger round us, as the song

Of the sweet bird that lingers on the ear,

When, floating upward in the flush of even,

Its form is lost from earth and swallowed up in heaven.