LXVI.

And if the love, which here was passing light, Went with what died not--oh! that _this_ we knew, But this!--that through the silence of the night, Some voice, of all the lost ones and the true, Would speak, and say, if in their far repose, We are yet aught of what we were to those We call the dead! Their passionate adieu, Was it but breath, to perish? Holier trust Be mine!--thy love _is_ there, but purified from dust!