Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The grave itself is but a covered bridge, Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness!

Ah, the souls of those that die Are but sunbeams lifted higher.

Time has laid his hand Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it, But as a harper lays his open palm Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee,—are all with thee!

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! Sail on, O Union, strong and great! Humanity with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate!

And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives.

Sail forth into the sea of life, O gentle, loving, trusting wife, And safe from all adversity Upon the bosom of that sea Thy comings and thy goings be! For gentleness and love and trust

And see! she stirs! She starts,—she moves,—she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel, And, spurning with her foot the ground, With one exulting, joyous bound, She leaps into the ocean's arms!

For his heart was in his work, and the heart Giveth grace unto every Art.

Build me straight, O worthy Master! Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, That shall laugh at all disaster, And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives whom we call dead.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death.

What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven's distant lamps.

But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise.

The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mournings for the dead.

There is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair!

My soul is full of longing For the secret of the Sea, And the heart of the great ocean Sends a thrilling pulse through me.

O holy trust! O endless sense of rest! Like the beloved John To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, And thus to journey on!

But the great Master said, "I see No best in kind, but in degree; I gave a various gift to each, To charm, to strengthen, and to teach.

God sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again.

In the elder days of Art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part; For the gods see everywhere.

Nothing useless is, or low; Each thing in its place is best; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest.

All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time.

Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee.