Till all were dead and veil’d from mortal eyes.
And so with Haydn was it, and his world,—
These never had appear’d so fill’d with light
As when so far from me. The slightest hint
Of home, that made me think this home was his,
Made all things there as bright as heaven itself;—
Yes, yes, though heaven so very bright must be!—
For even here the past is bright; and there,
Up there, we faith shall have, such perfect faith,
That none can longer fear the future. No: