Page:Poems Denver.djvu/101

And they, the dead, would they not hover round,
Invisible? would not the air abound,
With spirit-voices—voices of the dead?
I deemed of yore were forever fled
To heaven, or lingered round their place of birth,
The only worshipped spot on all the earth,
For warm, devoted hearts—and yet a thrill,
A consciousness that they are with me still,
Where'er I may be, rushes o'er my soul,
Filling with reverential awe the whole,
Till, like a load of fragrance on the air,
I feel them spiritually every where.

And I am humbled! though I prized them well,
I prized them not enough: we cannot tell
How much we love the living, till the thread
Of life is snapped, and they are with the dead.
Then the remembrance of each uttered word,
Cold or neglectful, from its depths is stirred,
And drooping heavily across the heart,
A shadow falls that will not thence depart.
It is the ghostly feeling of regret,
That haunts the bosom when all hope has set
Of restitution. We may call the dead.
But will they answer to the tears we shed?

And yet they hover round us constantly,
To witness our repentance; though we see