Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door, The loved ones, the true-hearted, Come to visit us once more. —LONGFELLOW. They are ever hovering round us, A mysterious, shadowy band, Singing songs, low, soft and plaintive They have learned in Spirit-Land. Bright their wings as hues elysian, Blended on the sunset sky, By unseen, but angel-artists, That concealed behind it lie. Sweet their soft and gentle voices Mingle with each passing breeze, And the sorrowing heart rejoices, As amid the leafy trees In the green and verdant summer, Tones long-hushed are heard again, And the quick ear some new-comer Catches joining in their strain. Sceptics say ’tis but the breezes Wandering on their wayward way— That the souls of the departed Rest in peace and bliss for aye. But I know the fond, the loved ones, Cleansed from every earthly stain, Who have passed away before us, Come to visit us again! True, our eyes may not behold them, Nor the glittering robes they wear. True, our arms may not enfold them, Radiant phantoms formed of air! But I often hear them round me, And each gentle voice is known, When some dreamy spell hath bound me, As I sit at eve alone! Playmates of my joyous childhood, Wont to laugh the hours away, As they roamed with me the wildwood, In life’s beauteous break-of-day; They are spirits now, but hover On bright pinions round me still, Tender as some doting lover, Warning me of every ill. And among them comes one, brighter, Fonder far than all beside, Sunlight of my young existence, Who in life’s green springtime died. Music from her lips is gushing, Like the wind-harps plaintive tune, When the breeze with soft wing brushes O’er its strings in flowery June.