We are yet aught of what we were to those
We call the dead! Their passionate adieu,
Was it but breath, to perish? Holier trust
Be mine!—thy love is there, but purified from dust!
LXVII.
A thing all heavenly!—clear’d from that which hung
As a dim cloud between us, heart and mind!
Loosed from the fear, the grief, whose tendrils flung
A chain so darkly with its growth entwined.
This is my hope!—though when the sunset fades,