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And well the sleeper knows them not of earth— Not as they were when binding up the flowers, Telling wild legends round the winter-hearth, Braiding their long fair hair for festal hours; These things are past;—a spiritual gleam, A solemn glory, robes them in that dream.

Yet, if the glee of life's fresh budding years In those pure aspects may no more be read, Thence, too, hath sorrow melted,—and the tears Which o'er their mother's holy dust they shed, Are all effaced; there earth hath left no sign Save its deep love, still touching every line.

But oh! more soft, more tender, breathing more A thought of pity, than in vanished days: While, hovering silently and brightly o'er   The lone one's head, they meet her spirit's gaze With their immortal eyes, that seem to say, "Yet, sister, yet we love thee, come away!"