Classic Poem

I HAVE a friend, I cannot tell just where,
For out of sight and hearing he has gone;
Yet now, as once, I breathe for him a prayer,
Although his name is carved upon a stone.

O blessed habit of the lips and heart!
Not to be broken by the might of Death.
A soul beyond seems so less far apart
If daily named to Heaven with fervid breath.

Is one at rest with God, we well may think,
He overhears the prayer we pray for him;
Our Father lets us keep this sacred link;
The hand of Prayer, Love's holy lamp can trim.

And were the dead once heedless of God's will,
Needing our prayer that he might be forgiven;
Against all creeds, that prayer uprises still,
With the dim hope of pardon and of Heaven.