The silence--awful, sweet, and calm--
They have no power to break;
For mortal words are not for them
To utter or partake.
So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide,
So near to press they seem,--
They seem to lull us to our rest,
And melt into our dream.
And in the bush of rest they bring
'Tis easy now to see
How lovely and how sweet a pass
The hour of death may be.
To close the eye, and close the ear,
Rapt in a trance of bliss,
And gently dream in loving arms
To swoon to that--from this.
Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep,
Scarce asking where we are,
To feel all evil sink away,
All sorrow and all care.
Sweet souls around us! watch us still,
Press nearer to our side,
Into our thoughts, into our prayers,
With gentle helpings glide.
Let death between us be as naught,
A dried and vanished stream;
Your joy be the reality.
Our suffering life the dream.
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
* * * * *
HEAVEN.
I never saw a moor,
I never saw the sea;
Yet know I how the heather looks,
And what a wave must be.
I never spake with God,
Nor visited in heaven;
Yet certain am I of the spot
As if the chart were given.
EMILY DICKINSON.
* * * * *
THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN.
High thoughts!
They come and go,
Like the soft breathings of a listening maiden,
While round me flow
The winds, from woods and fields with gladness laden:
When the corn's rustle on the ear doth come--
When the eve's beetle sounds its drowsy hum--
When the stars, dew-drops of the summer sky,
Watch over all with soft and loving eye--
While the leaves quiver
By the lone river,
And the quiet heart
From depths doth call
And garners all--
Earth grows a shadow
Forgotten whole,
And heaven lives
In the blessed soul!
High thoughts
They are with me
When, deep within the bosom of the forest,
Thy mourning melody
Abroad into the sky, thou, throstle! pourest.
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