Shall they ever live again in the memory of those who loved them here below?  What is this life without the poor accidents which made it our own, and by which we identify ourselves?  Ah me!  I might like to be a winged chorister, but still it seems to me I should hardly be quite happy if I could not recall at will the Old House with the Long Entry, and the White Chamber (where I wrote the first verses that made me known, with a pencil, stans pede in uno, pretty, nearly), and the Little Parlor, and the Study, and the old books in uniforms as varied as those of the Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company used to be, if my memory serves me right, and the front yard with the Star-of-Bethlehems growing, flowerless, among the grass, and the dear faces to be seen no more there or anywhere on this earthly place of farewells.

I have told my story.  I do not know what special gifts have been granted or denied me; but this I know, that I am like so many others of my fellow-creatures, that when I smile, I feel as if they must; when I cry, I think their eyes fill; and it always seems to me that when I am most truly myself I come nearest to them and am surest of being listened to by the brothers and sisters of the larger family into which I was born so long ago.  I have often feared they might be tired of me and what I tell them.  But then, perhaps, would come a letter from some quiet body in some out-of-the-way place, which showed me that I had said something which another had often felt but never said, or told the secret of another’s heart in unburdening my own.  Such evidences that one is in the highway of human experience and feeling lighten the footsteps wonderfully.  So it is that one is encouraged to go on writing as long as the world has anything that interests him, for he never knows how many of his fellow-beings he may please or profit, and in how many places his name will be spoken as that of a friend.

In the mood suggested by my story I have ventured on the poem that follows.  Most people love this world more than they are willing to confess, and it is hard to conceive ourselves weaned from it so as to feel no emotion at the thought of its most sacred recollections, even after a sojourn of years, as we should count the lapse of earthly time,—­in the realm where, sooner or later, all tears shall be wiped away.  I hope, therefore, the title of my lines will not frighten those who are little accustomed to think of men and women as human beings in any state but the present.

Homesick in heaven.

The divine voice.

     Go seek thine earth-born sisters,—­thus the Voice
     That all obey,—­the sad and silent three;
     These only, while the hosts of heaven rejoice,
     Smile never:  ask them what their sorrows be: 

     And when the secret of their griefs they tell,
     Look on them with thy mild, half-human eyes;
     Say what thou wast on earth; thou knowest well;
     So shall they cease from unavailing sighs.