Whence with their voices all sweet laughter fled
They rise—the sisters of her youth arise,
As from the world where no frail blossom dies.
And well the sleeper knows them not of earth—
Not as they were when binding up the flowers,
Telling wild legends round the winter-hearth,
Braiding their long, fair hair for festal hours:
These things are past—a spiritual gleam,
A solemn glory, robes them in that dream.
Yet, if the glee of life’s fresh budding years