Our Dead

Sometimes I think that those we've lost,
Safe lying on th' Eternal Breast,
Can hear no sounds from earth that mar
The perfect sweetness of their rest;
But when one thought of holy love
Is stirr'd in hearts they love below,
Through some fine waves of ambient air,
They feel, they see it, and they know.

As rays unseen—abysmal light—
Are caught by films of silver salt
When these are set to watch by night
The wheelings of the starry vault,—
So may the souls that live and dwell
In one great soul, the Fount of all,
Feel faintest tremblings in the sphere
On which such footsteps gently fall.

No evil seen, no murmurs heard,
No fear of sin, or coming loss,
They wait in light, imperfect yet,
The final triumphs of the Cross.