Classic Poem

'CAN the soul die, believe you?
Because it seems to me
My soul is dead and buried,
So still it seems to be.

'It quivers not with joy;
It moaneth not with pain;
There is no note in nature
Awakens it again.

'Those white clouds in the azure;
Those lanes; those breezy trees;
Those softly gliding swallows;
Those fluted melodies;

'Those shadows in the meadows,
Running a fitful race;
With pleasure once they thrilled me,
But coldly now I gaze.'

Fear not; oh! not so lightly
The soul of mortal dies;
It has but wept itself to sleep,
And all unconscious lies.

The surging feelings overwrought,
They have but ebbed away,
And left the soul a little while
With all their changeful spray.

But stronger, deeper, fuller, in
The billowy tide will roll,
And overflood, with life and love,
The ever living soul.