Our loss is ancient; many a heart is sighing
This hour a late one, or by slow degrees
Heals some old wound, to God’s high grace replying—
A time there was when thou wert like to these!
Where art thou? In what unimagined sphere
Liv’st thou, sojourner, or a transient guest?
By whom companioned? Access hath she near,
In life thy nearest, and beloved the best?
What memory hast thou of thy loved ones here?
Hangs the great Vision o’er thy place of rest?