James Russell Lowell

* * *

  To the dark, narrow house where loved ones go,
  Whence no steps outward turn, whose silent door
  None but the sexton knocks at any more,
  Are they not sometimes with us yet below?
  The longings of the soul would tell us so;
  Although, so pure and fine their being's essence,
  Our bodily eyes are witless of their presence,
  Yet not within the tomb their spirits glow,
  Like wizard lamps pent up, but whensoever
  With great thoughts worthy of their high behests
  Our souls are filled, those bright ones with us be,
  As, in the patriarch's tent, his angel guests;--
  O let us live so worthily, that never
  We may be far from that blest company.