Classic Poem

When the breath of English meadows
Is fragrant on the breeze,
And the flowers in my own garden
Are musical with bees;

In the calm and pleasant evenings,
Will ye think of her who died,
Where the summer hath no twilight,
Where the salt sea hath no tide?

Then when your lips shall name me,
Without or grief or gloom,
My spirit, like a sunbeam,
Shall glide into the room.

Though ye see me not among you,
Though I breathe not with your breath,
The bond is still between us,
And love outliveth death.

And all that blessed spirits
In the land of rest may do,
To minister to others,
That will I do for you.

In the glimmer of the moonshine,
On your closely curtain'd beds,
It may be mine to hover
With white wings o'er your heads.

It may be mine to linger
In the fragrant morning air,
And carry up to Heaven
The incense of your prayer.

I may listen to your laughter,
I may watch o'er you in pain;
Will ye think of me, my darlings,
When ye see me not again?

In the sweet home where I nursed you,
Will you think of her who died,
Where the summer hath no twilight,
Where the salt sea hath no tide?