"Why will they weep and not have done? Why sorrow so? and all for one, Who, they believe, hath found the best God gives to us,--and that is rest. Why grieve?--Yea, rather let them lift The voice in thanks for such a gift, That leaves the worn hands, long that wrought, And weary feet, that sought and sought, At peace; and makes what came to naught, In life, more real now than all The good men strive for here on Earth: The love they seek; the things they call Desirable and full of worth; Yea, wisdom ev'n; and, like the South, The dreams that dewed the soul's sick drouth, And heart's sad barrenness.--God's rest, With every sigh and every tear, By them who weep above me here, Despite their Faith and Hope, 's confessed A doubt; a thing to dread and fear. "Before them peacefully I lie. But, haply, not for me they sigh, But for themselves,--their loss. The round Of daily labor still to do For them, while for myself 'tis through; And all the unknown, too, is found, The bourn for which all hopes are bound, Where dreams are all made manifest: For this they grieve, perhaps. 'Tis well; Since 'tis through grief the soul is blessed, Not joy;--and yet, we can not tell, We do not know, we can not prove, We only feel that there is love, And something we call Heaven and Hell. "Howbeit, here, you see, I lie, As all shall lie--for all must die-- A cast-off, useless, empty shell, In which an essence once did dwell; That once, like fruit, the spirit held, And with its husk of flesh compelled: The mask of mind, the world of will, That laughed and wept and labored till The thing within, that never slept, The life essential, from it stept; The ichor-veined inhabitant Who made it all it was; in all Its aims the thing original, That held its course, like any star, Among its fellows; or a plant, Among its brother plants; 'mid whom,-- The same and yet dissimilar,-- Distinct and individual, It grew to microcosmic bloom." These were the words the dead man said To me who stood beside the dead. DISTANCE I I dreamed last night once more I stood Knee-deep on purple clover leas; Her old home glimmered through its wood Of dark and melancholy trees: And on my brow I felt the breeze That blew from out the solitude, With sounds of waters that pursued, And sleepy hummings of the bees. II And ankle-deep in violet blooms Methought I saw her standing there, A lawny light among the glooms, A crown of sunlight on her hair; The wood-birds, warbling everywhere, Above her head flashed happy plumes; About her clung the wild perfumes, And woodland gleams of shimmering air. III