Then the forms of the departed The beloved, the true-hearted, Come to visit me once more; He, the young and strong, who cherished By the road-side fell and perished, They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, And with them the Being Beauteous, And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies Uttered not, yet comprehended, O, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! FLOWERS. SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. Stars they are, wherein we read our history, Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, But not less in the bright flowerets under us Bright and glorious is that revelation, Making evident our own creation, And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, Flaunting gayly in the golden light; Large desires, with most uncertain issues, These in flowers and men are more than seeming, Workings are they of the self-same powers, Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, Seeth in himself and in the flowers. Everywhere about us are they glowing, Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, |