VII.— SONNET: OUR DEAD

They have not gone from us. O no! they are

The inmost essence of each thing that is

Perfect for us; they flame in every star;

The trees are emerald with their presences.

They are not gone from us; they do not roam

The flaw and turmoil of the lower deep,

But have now made the whole wide world their home,

And in its loveliness themselves they steep.

They fail not ever; theirs is the diurn

Splendour of sunny hill and forest grave;

In every rainbow's glittering drop they burn;

They dazzle in the massed clouds’ architrave;

They chant on every wind, and they return

In the long roll of any deep blue wave.