Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone, But present still, And waiting for the coming hour Of God's sweet will. Lord of the living and the dead, Our Saviour dear! We lay in silence at thy feet This sad, sad year! [Illustration] BELOW. LOUDLY sweep the winds of autumn O'er that lone, beloved grave, Where we laid those sunny ringlets, When those blue eyes set like stars, Leaving us to outer darkness. O the longing and the aching! O the sere deserted grave! Let the grass turn brown upon thee, Brown and withered like our dreams! Let the wind moan through the pine-trees With a dreary, dirge-like whistle, Sweep the dead leaves on its bosom,-- Moaning, sobbing through the branches, Where the summer laughed so gayly. He is gone, our boy of summer,-- Gone the light of his blue eyes, Gone the tender heart and manly, Gone the dreams and the aspirings,-- Nothing but the _mound_ remaineth, And the aching in our bosoms, Ever aching, ever throbbing: Who shall bring it unto rest? ABOVE. A VISION. COMING down a golden street I beheld my vanished one, And he moveth on a cloud, And his forehead wears a star; And his blue eyes, deep and holy, Fixed as in a blessed dream, See some mystery of joy, Some unuttered depth of love. And his vesture is as blue As the skies of summer are, Falling with a saintly sweep, With a sacred stillness swaying; And he presseth to his bosom Harp of strange and mystic fashion, And his hands, like living pearls, Wander o'er the golden strings. And the music that ariseth, Who can utter or divine it? In that strange celestial thrilling, Every memory of sorrow, Every heart-ache, every anguish, Every fear for the to-morrow, Melt away in charméd rest. And there be around him many, Bright with robes like evening clouds,-- Tender green and clearest amber, Crimson fading into rose, Robes of flames and robes of silver,-- And their hues all thrill and tremble With a living light of feeling, Deepening with each heart's pulsation, Till in vivid trance of color That celestial rainbow glows. How they float and wreathe and brighten, Bending low their starry brows, Singing with a tender cadence, And their hands, like spotless lilies, Folded on their prayerful breasts. In their singing seem to mingle Tender airs of by-gone days;-- Mother-hymnings by the cradle, Mother-moanings by the grave, Songs of human love and sorrow, Songs of endless love and rest;-- In the pauses of that music Every throb of sorrow dies.