And while the night winds murmur, “She is dead!”
Her shy sweet eyes unclosing joyfully
As if she heard the “Talitha, cumi!”
The stream, escaping from the winter’s wrath,
And leaping swiftly down its rocky path,
Or pausing in some shadowy, foam-flecked pool,
Among the nodding ferns and mosses cool;
The floating clouds, the fragrant earth, the sea,
With its low whispers of eternity,—
All join in one grand harmony of praise