'T IS 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!