SILENCE, NOT DEATH.
I start! I have slept for a moment;
I have dreamt, sitting here by her chair—
Oh, how lonely! What was it that touched me?
What presence, what heaven-sent air?
It was nothing, you say. But I tremble;
I heard her, I knew she was near—
Felt her breath, felt her cheek on my forehead—
Awake or asleep, she was here!
It was nothing—a dream? Strike that harp-string;
Again—still again—till it cries
In its uttermost treble—still strike it—
Ha? vibrant but silent! It dies—
It dies, just as she died. Go, listen—
That highest vibration is dumb.
Your sense, friend, too soon finds a limit
And answer, when mysteries come.
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