Classic Poem

I LOVE the dead!
The precious spirits gone before,
And waiting on that peaceful shore
To meet with welcome looks, and kiss me yet once more

I love the dead!
And fondly doth my fancy paint
Each dear one, wash'd from earthly taint,
By patience and by hope made a most gentle saint.

O, glorious dead!
Without one spot upon the dress
Of your ethereal loveliness,
Ye linger round me still with earnest will to bless.

Enfranchised dead!
Each fault and failing left behind,
And nothing now to chill or bind,
How gloriously ye reign in majesty of mind!

O, royal dead!
The resting, free, unfettered dead!
The yearning, conscious, holy dead!
The hoping, waiting, calm — the happy, changeless dead!

I love the dead!
And well forget their little ill,
Eager to bask my memory still
In all their best of words, and deeds, and ways, and will.

I bless the dead!
Their good, half choked by this world's weeds,
Is blooming now in heavenly meads,
And ripening golden fruit, of all those early seeds

I trust the dead!
They understand me frankly now,
There are no clouds on heart or brow,
But spirit, reading spirit, answereth glow for glow.

I praise the dead!
All their tears are wiped away,
Their darkness turned to perfect day —
How blessed are the dead — how beautiful be they!

O, gracious dead!
That watch me from your paradise,
With happy, tender, star-like eyes,
Let your sweet influence rain me blessings from high

Yet, helpless dead,
Vainly my yearning nature dares
Such unpremeditated pray'rs;
All vain it were for them; as even for me their stares.

Immortal dead!
Ye in your lot are fixed as fate
And man or angel is too late
To beckon back by prayer one change upon your state.

O, god-like dead!
Ye that do rest, like Noah's dove,
Fearless I leave you to the love
Of him who gave you peace to bear with you above!

And ye, the dead,
Godless on earth, and gone astray,
Alas, your hour is pass'd away!
The Judge is just; for you it now were sin to pray.

Still, all ye dead,
First may be last, and last be first:
Charity counteth no man cursed,
But hopeth still in Him whose love would save the worst.

Therefore, ye dead,
I love you, be ye good or ill;
For God, our God, doth love me still,
And you he loved on earth with love that naught could chill.

And some, just dead,
To me on earth most deeply dear,
Who loved, and nursed, and bless'd me here,
I love you with a love that casteth out all fear.

Come near me, dead!
In spirit come to me, and kiss —
No! I must wait awhile for this:
A few, few years or days, and I too feed on bliss!