Preludes, 2

Will ye come in, and sit in this dark house? —
'T were better, as I think, for ye to go
Where blackbirds sing and early violets blow,
And watch Spring dawning in the fields and boughs.
Here, with pale wreaths around their blanched, cold brows.
Lie dead the days whereof ye nothing know.
Ye say the dead are harmless; is it so?
Nay; uncompassionating Death allows

The ghosts of their dead selves to come again;
And, if ye tarry, ye will see them rise, —
Dim shapes intangible, that wax and wane.
Some gaze with pleading, some with wrathful eyes,
"Mere ghosts," ye say; yet go, before ye cry, —
"We have seen the immortal faces, and we die! '