Eighth Opal

I did not know before That we dead could rise and walk; That our voices, as of yore, Would blend in gentle talk.

I did not know her eyes Would so haunt mine after death, Or that she could hear my sighs, Low as the harp-string's breath.

But, ah, last night we met! From our stilly trance we rose, Thrilled with all the old regret-- The grieving that God knows.

She asked: "Am I forgiven?"-- "And dost thou forgive?" I said, Ah! how long for joy we'd striven! But now our hearts were dead.

Alas, for the lips I kissed And the sweet hope, long ago! On her grave chill hangs the mist; On mine, white lies the snow.