Like melancholy ghosts, upon the path
Where he goes sadly, seeking only death.
Then live again the forms of those who lie
Gather'd into the grave's dark mystery.
Vainly at reason's voice the phantom flies,—
It comes, it still comes back to the fond eyes,—
Still, still the yearning arms are spread to clasp
The blessing that escapes their baffled grasp:
Still the bewildering memory mutters "Gone!"
Still, still the clinging aching heart loves on.