‘This envelope you say has something in it
Which once belonged to your dead son-or something
He knew, was fond of? Something he remembers?-
The soul flies far, and we can only call it
By things like these. . . a photograph, a letter,
Ribbon, or charm, or watch. . . ‘
. . . Wind flows softly, the long slow even wind,
Over the low roofs white with snow;
Wind blows, bearing cold clouds over the ocean,
One by one they melt and flow,-
Streaming one by one over trees and towers,
Coiling and gleaming in shafts of sun;
Wind flows, bearing clouds; the hurrying shadows
Flow under them one by one. . .
‘ . . . A spirit darkens before me. . . it is the spirit
Which in the flesh you called your son. . . A spirit
Young and strong and beautiful. . .
He says that he is happy, is much honored;
Forgives and is forgiven. . . rain and wind
Do not perplex him. . . storm and dust forgotten. .
The glittering wheels in wheels of time are broken
And laid aside. . . ‘
‘Ask him why he did the thing he did!’
‘He is unhappy. This thing, he says, transcends you:
Dust cannot hold what shines beyond the dust. . .
What seems calamity is less than a sigh;
What seems disgrace is nothing.’
‘Ask him if the one he hurt is there,
And if she loves him still!’
‘He tells you she is there, and loves him still,-
Not as she did, but as all spirits love. . .
A cloud of spirits has gathered about him.
They praise him and call him, they do him honor;
He is more beautiful, he shines upon them.’
. . . Wind flows softly, the long deep tremulous wind,
Over the low roofs white with snow. . .
Wind flows, bearing dreams; they gather and vanish,
One by one they sing and flow;
Over the outstretched lands of days remembered,
Over remembered tower and wall,
One by one they gather and talk in the darkness,
Rise and glimmer and fall. . .
‘Ask him why he did the thing he did!
He knows I will understand!’
‘It is too late:
He will not hear me: I have lost my power.’
‘Three times I’ve asked him! He will never tell me.
God have mercy upon him. I will ask no more.’