Smile on, you newly dead, whose griefless masks
Are emptied of mortality of mind;
Safe is your secret from the world that asks
If death be dark, — all lost and left behind.
Be dust; you ex-inhabitants of air,
You freemen of — at worst — unconscious night;
Be mystery, you whose voices haunt us where
This little while we listen from the light.

Be real, imagined angels, when we stand
Near-thoughted to the cold and cratered land,
Alone with imperfection that must part
From flesh, which for its crowned achievement cried,
And soon must follow those who dreamed and died
Carrying immortal omens in their heart.