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.

Hearkening still, I hear this strain

From the ninth opal's varied vein: