Of nearness to her sundered things
The Soul has special times,
When Dimness looks the oddity,
Distinctness easy seems.
The shapes we buried dwell about.
Familiar in the rooms,
Untarnished by the sepulcher
Our moldering playmate comes
In just the jacket that he wore,
Long buttoned in the mold,
Since we, old mornings, children played,
Divided by a world.
The grave yields back her robberies,
The years are pilfered things,
Bright knots of apparitions
Salute us with their wings—
As we it were that perished,
Themselves had just remained
Till we rejoin them,
And ’twas They, and not Ourselves
That mourned.
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