And a seraph-glory from the moon
Floats down through the sleeping air.
A march for the Dead—the lovely Dead
Whose voices still we hear,
Like a spirit-anthem, mournfully
Around a brother’s bier:
Their eyes still beam, as of old, on ours—
And their words still cheer the soul—
And their smiles still shine, like star-lit bow’rs,
Where the tides of Being roll.