From the fastness of thy—Grave.
XVIII.
1.
There’s an hour, at the fall of night, when the blissful souls
Of those who were dear in life seem close at hand;
There’s a holy midnight hour, when we speak their names
In pauses between our songs on the trellised porch;
And we sing the hymns which they loved, and almost know
Their phantoms are somewhere with us, filling the gaps,
The sorrowful chasms left when they passed away;