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My old affection of the tomb,
A part of stillness, yearns to speak;
'Arise, and get thee forth and seek
A friendship for the years to come.
I watch thee from the quiet shore;
Thy spirit up to mine can reach;
But in dear words of human speech
We two communicate no more.'
And I 'Can clouds of nature stain
The starry clearness of the free?
How is it? Canst thou feel for me
Some painless sympathy with pain?'
And lightly does the whisper fall;
''Tis hard for thee to fathom this;
I triumph in conclusive bliss,
And that serene result of all.'
So hold I commerce with the dead;
Or so methinks the dead would say;
Or so shall grief with symbols play,
And pining life be fancy-fed.
