“The very strangest and suddenest thing
Of all the surprises that dying must bring.”

Ah, foolish world!  O, most kind dead! 
Though he told me, who will believe it was said?

Who will believe that he heard her say,
With a sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way: 

“The utmost wonder is this,—­I hear,
And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear;

“And am your angel, who was your bride,
And know that, though dead, I have never died.”

SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.

PEACE.

There is the peace that cometh after sorrow,
  Of hope surrendered, not of hope fulfilled;
A peace that looketh not upon to-morrow,
  But calmly on a tempest that is stilled.

A peace which lives not now in joy’s excesses,
  Nor in the happy life of love secure,
But in the unerring strength the heart possesses,
  Of conflicts won, while learning to endure.

A peace-there is, in sacrifice secluded,
  A life subdued, from will and passion free;
’Tis not the peace that over Eden brooded,
  But that which triumphed in Gethsemane.

ANONYMOUS.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

When the hours of day are numbered,
  And the voices of the night
Wake the better soul that slumbered
  To a holy, calm delight,—­

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
  And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
  Dance upon the parlor wall;

Then the forms of the departed
  Enter at the open door,—­
The beloved ones, the true-hearted,
  Come to visit me once more: 

He, the young and strong, who cherished
  Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perished,
  Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
  Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
  Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the being beauteous
  Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
  And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep,
  Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
  Lays her gentle hand in mine;

And she sits and gazes at me
  With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
  Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,
  Is the spirit’s voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
  Breathing from her lips of air.

O, though oft depressed and lonely,
  All my fears are laid aside
If I but remember only
  Such as these have lived and died!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

HAPPY ARE THE DEAD.