Bruce Perens 

It is only the touch of their hands that grope-- When the dead.html">dead.html">dead.html">dead.html">dead.html">dead.html">dead.html">dead.html">dead.html">dead can yearn and the dead can smite. III But here, where such hundreds were lovers too? The empty hands that their fellows miss, Sleep bed.html">bed by bed, with the worm between? When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.html">sight. IV Let us warm their blood and give youth to the old. In the prime of the year it went with us!" Forget they are mist.html">mist.html">mist that mingles with mist! When the dead can burn and the dead can smite. V "Just an hour of this, and our age-long bed-- To kindle a flame in our frozen veins, As the chill of dawn strikes each phantom heart-- When the dead can hear and the dead have sight." VI But here in this wan white humming hive, And one by one they creep back to the fold? "One more, one more, ere we go their way"? When the living.html">living can learn by the churchyard light.html">light. VII Those dead lips plight with the mist between, They lie thus chambered and cold to the moon? Who must do so soon as those others do? And behold, with the light the dead are away. . . _From the blissful ranks of the forgiven,_ _And the spheres are seven._ Are you in such haste to come to earth, To the low poor places of your birth, In the grey and mortal years, The clear eye its tears? Was there, in the narrow range of living, In the old old rapture of forgiving, To the irksome bounds of mortal law, Look that never saw? Never we, imprisoned here, had sought you, Down the silver current of the light-years brought you .

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