The spirits of the dead are with us still; Part of our being, instinct to our life, Familiars light and dark; all space is rife With influences that mould our plastic will, Unseen yet felt, unknown yet guessed at, till Death plucks away the mask of flesh, or strife Of soul wears out the body as a knife Frets through its sheath then feels a naked thrill. For nature wars within us with a sense Mysterious, conjoined, yet not of her, Subduing yet subdued; but when the tense Bond of their union slackens, then the whirr Of the soul's wings is heard, our essence soars Transfigured, lighted from the eternal shores. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO A BLUEBELL by EMILY JANE BRONTE EPISODE OF HANDS by HAROLD HART CRANE THE TEMPEST: PROLOGUE by JOHN DRYDEN THE BENCH OF BOORS by HERMAN MELVILLE SUMMER (2) by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 52 by PHILIP SIDNEY FAUSTINE by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE |