A Truce With Dead Souls

Now loose me, loose me, O ye dead Whose shadowy fingers clasp my own; I must fare on my way alone, Along a road ye may not tread, To hopes and fears ye have not known.

Nor shall ye challenge my high truth, Nor deem of me that I forget That far goal where our eyes were set; Nor hold me false to that lost youth Whose solemn visions lead me yet.

Ye quiet, ye untroubled dead, Count ye the stones that stay my feet? Or reckon ye the winds that beat Fiercely upon my naked head? Weigh ye the fear my soul must meet?

O loose me, for I journey far; O hold me not; ye cannot know On what rough trails my feet must go In lands unlit of sun and star, Where still the swiftest feet are slow.

I see what ye no more may see; I seek our vision’s noblest use; And he that keeps that quest with me Through good and ill all patiently Is Life. Ah! dead souls, grant the truce!