May be heaven’s distant lamps.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition:

This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

Whose portal we call Death.

She is not dead,—the child of our affection,—

But gone unto that school

Where she no longer needs our poor protection,

And Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister’s [♦]stillness and seclusion,