These fair, fictitious people,

These fair, fictitious people,
The women plucked away
From our familiar notice,
The men of ivory—

These boys and girls in canvas
Who dwell upon the wall
In everlasting childhood,
Where are they—can you tell?

Perhaps in places perfecter,
Inheriting delight
Beyond our small conjecture,
Our scanty estimate.

Remembering ourselves, we trust,
But blesseder than we,
Through knowing where we only hope—
Receiving—where we pray.

Of expectation also—
Anticipating us
With transport that would be a pain,
Except for Holiness—
Esteeming us, as exiles,
Themselves admitted home
Through gentle miracle of Death
The way ourselves must come.