O YE who see with other eyes than ours, And speak with tongues we are too deaf to hear, Whose touch we cannot feel yet know ye near, When, with a sense of yet undreamed-of powers, We sudden pierce the cloud of sense that lowers, Enwrapping us as 't were our spirit's tomb, And catch some sudden glory through the gloom, As Arctic sufferers dream of sun and flowers! Do ye not sometimes long for power to speak To our dull ears, and pierce their shroud of clay With a loud cry, "Why, then, this grief at 'death'? We are the living, you the dead to-day! This truth you soon shall see, dear hearts, yet weak, In God's bright mirror cleared from mortal breath!" |