And in the bush of rest they bring
    ’Tis easy now to see
  How lovely and how sweet a pass
    The hour of death may be.

  To close the eye, and close the ear,
    Rapt in a trance of bliss,
  And gently dream in loving arms
    To swoon to that—­from this.

  Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep,
    Scarce asking where we are,
  To feel all evil sink away,
    All sorrow and all care.

  Sweet souls around us! watch us still,
    Press nearer to our side,
  Into our thoughts, into our prayers,
    With gentle helpings glide.

  Let death between us be as naught,
    A dried and vanished stream;
  Your joy be the reality. 
    Our suffering life the dream.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

* * * * *

HEAVEN.

  I never saw a moor,
    I never saw the sea;
  Yet know I how the heather looks,
    And what a wave must be.

  I never spake with God,
    Nor visited in heaven;
  Yet certain am I of the spot
    As if the chart were given.

EMILY DICKINSON.

* * * * *

THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN.

  High thoughts! 
    They come and go,
      Like the soft breathings of a listening maiden,
    While round me flow
      The winds, from woods and fields with gladness laden: 
  When the corn’s rustle on the ear doth come—­
  When the eve’s beetle sounds its drowsy hum—­
  When the stars, dew-drops of the summer sky,
  Watch over all with soft and loving eye—­
        While the leaves quiver
        By the lone river,
          And the quiet heart
            From depths doth call
            And garners all—­
          Earth grows a shadow
            Forgotten whole,
          And heaven lives
            In the blessed soul!

High thoughts
They are with me
When, deep within the bosom of the forest,
Thy mourning melody
Abroad into the sky, thou, throstle! pourest. 
When the young sunbeams glance among the trees—­
When on the ear comes the soft song of bees—­
When every branch has its own favorite bird
And songs of summer from each thicket heard!—­
Where the owl flitteth,
Where the roe sitteth,
And holiness
Seems sleeping there;
While nature’s prayer
Goes up to heaven
In purity,
Till all is glory
And joy to me!

High thoughts! 
They are my own
When I am resting on a mountain’s bosom,
And see below me strown
The huts and homes where humble virtues blossom;
When I can trace each streamlet through the meadow,
When I can follow every fitful shadow—­
When I can watch the winds among the corn,
And see the waves along the forest borne;
Where blue-bell and heather
Are blooming together,
And far doth come
The Sabbath bell,
O’er wood and fell;
I hear the beating
Of nature’s heart: 
Heaven is before me—­
God! thou art.