By Robert Underwood-Johnson
Here in the dark what ghostly figures press!-
No phantom of the Past, or grim or sad;
No waiting spirit of woe; no specter, clad
In white and wandering cloud, whose dumb distress
Is that its crime it never may confess;
No shape from the strewn sea; nor they that add
The link of Life and Death, - the tearless mad,
That live nor die in dreary nothingness:
But blessed spirits waiting to be born-
Thoughts to unlock the fettering chains of Things;
The Better Time; the Universal Good.
Their smile is like the joyous break of morn;
How fair, how near, how wistfully they brood!
Listen! that murmur is of angels' wings.