I cannot trace the pathways of her feet In those far lands where body is no more, In morns that render sorrow obsolete And meetings with the great who've gone before.
For in this world where only the gross is seen The damask roses of her cheeks abloom Are hid from outer sight behind a screen In subtle forms the Beautiful assume.
Perhaps a calm detachment will descend And fill the widening chasm in the breast Or angel-choirs stirring music lend To pain-fraught hearts by sorrows songs oppressed,
Perhaps, but surely do not believe it so, The dead are no more dead than we when dreams Are spent and love expired long ago And songs are stilled in life's illusive gleams.
What need have the departed for our tears, Already they have gone to rest and wait Preparing through the slow eternal years New bodies that shall live to venerate
The One for whom all living things exist. For that which having lived can never die, The Change shall come though all the world resist God's descent in our humanity.
Poems Undated (1727)
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