Vii

He turns from the window, takes up a book, and reads:

The soul, like Earth, hath silences Which speak not, yet are heard: The voices mute of memories Are louder than a word.

Theirs is a speech which is not speech; A language that is bound To soul-vibrations, vague, that reach Deeper than any sound.

No words are theirs. They speak through things, A visible utterance Of thoughts--like those some sunset brings, Or withered rose, perchance.

The heavens that once, in purple and flame, Spake to two hearts as one, In after years may speak the same To one sad heart alone.

Through it the vanished face and eyes Of her, the sweet and fair, Of her the lost, again shall rise To comfort his despair.

And so the love that led him long From golden scene to scene, Within the sunset is a tongue That speaks of what has been.--

How loud it speaks of that dead day, The rose whose bloom is fled! Of her who died; who, clasped in clay, Lies numbered with the dead.

The dead are dead; with them ’tis well Within their narrow room;-- No memories haunt their hearts who dwell Within the grave and tomb.

But what of those--the dead who live! The living dead, whose lot Is still to love--ah, God forgive!-- To live and love, forgot!