'TIS we who live that vagrants are; the dead Are not poor outcasts from our love, but rather The seeking souls who earlier have sped To where friends gather. Just every little while, one slips away; Almost we hear their greeting from those others: Our loss must make for them a happy day, Brothers to brothers! We who remain draw closer each to each; We smile as best we may with each to-morrow; But oh, our spirits know there is no speech To tell our sorrow! Not theirs the grief, we say, not theirs the grief; Our ranks grow thin, while theirs increase for ever: No hearth a-cold, no falling of the leaf, No friends that sever. Until we long to be of their good cheer; Oh, with what heartfelt, wistful yearning To join that company, select and dear, The home-returning! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A CHILD'S SONG OF CHRISTMAS by MARJORIE LOWRY CHRISTIE PICKTHALL UNDERSTANDING by NIXON WATERMAN THE COMMONPLACE by WALT WHITMAN AN AUTOGRAPH (1) by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER SONNET: THE LORELEI by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH |