"Dead lovers, how is it with you?"
"It is well at last,
Sister," reply their eyes about me thronging,
And all the phantoms of that immortal flight
Carry their torches still, and all the flames are white.
IV.
Often, so often, you walk in the cool dim thoughts of me,
Though you may never know how often and where,
And a dream like a little lantern unknowing have given to me—