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

To tell him 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!—