Classic Poem

But yet a greater host
Of silent mourners seems to encompass me:
They cross the wastes of many a shadowy sea
Swift-hovering, ghost on ghost.

They cross the unknown years;
They say, with grasp of hand or loving look,
“From each of us death took
A mother”—then their eyes grow dim with tears.

Then through the darkness starlight slowly flows,
A strange sense thrills me as of love drawn nigh:
They say, “Thou knowest not what it is to die;
What warrior dreams of rest 'mid shouts and blows?

“From each of us death stole
Our dearest,—but to each did Love restore
That dearest spirit:” I wait to gather more;
Nay, silence—but less strife within the soul.