Like a moan of the breeze through a summer sky—
Like a name of the dead when the wind foams high!
Yet speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught
With vain remembrance and troubled thought;
Speak! for thou tellest my soul that its birth
Links it with regions more bright than earth.
THE ANGEL’S GREETING.
“Hark!—they whisper!—Angels say,
Sister spirit! come away.” Pope.
Come to the land of peace!