IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW

What can death render us commensurate

With what it takes away; the voice of birds

On sweet spring mornings, and the face of spring;

And lush long grass around the browsing herds;

And shadows on the distant hills the flying rain-clouds fling?

What is there brighter in the world to come

Than white-winged sea-gulls, flashing in the sun

Above the blue Atlantic; what more free,

Yet what more stable, than those white wings, strung

All motionless, against a wind that whips the racing sea?

Yea, and if these things yet may be the soul's —

The summer moon above the garden flowers

Dew-drenched, and the slow song of nightingales —

Yea, and if all these after death be ours,

More beauty yet, and peace from strife, yet still the debt prevails.

For what can ever give us back again

The dear, familiar things of every day;

The loved and common language that we share;

The trivial pleasures; and, when children play,

Their laughter, and the touch of hands; and jests; and common care?