Sweeter than the trees of Eden, dropping purple blooms, and balm,
Are the odors wafted toward me from its isles of windless calm,--
And the gold of all our sunsets, with their sapphire all impearled,
Would not match the fused and glowing heaven of that under world.

Pale sea-buds there weep forever, water lilies damp and cool,
And the mystic lotus shining through its white waves beautiful,
In those dusk and sunless valleys, where no steps of mortals tread,
Bind the white brows of the living, whom we blindly call the dead.

Oh ye lost ones,--ye departed, who have passed that silent shore,
Though we call you through the sunset, ye return to us no more.
Have ye found those blessed islands where earth's toils and sorrows
cease?
Do ye wear the sacred lotus,--have ye entered into peace?

Do ye hear us when we call you,--do ye heed the tears we shed,--
Oh beloved!--oh immortal!--oh ye dead who are not dead!
Speak to us across the darkness,---wave to us a glimmering hand,--
Tell us but that ye _remember_, dwellers in the silent land!

But the sunset clouds have faded, arch and capital are gone,
And the regal night is glorious, with the starlight overblown;--
Life is labor and not dreaming, and I have my work to do,
Ere within those happy valleys I shall wear the lilies too.




THE SABBATH OF THE WOODS