When the hours of Day are numbered,
  And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
  To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
  And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
  Dance upon the parlor wall;

Then the forms of the departed
  Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
  Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherished
  Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perished,
  Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
  Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
  Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous,
  Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
  And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep
  Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
  Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me
  With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
  Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,
  Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
  Breathing from her lips of air.

Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,
  All my fears are laid aside,
If I but remember only
  Such as these have lived and died!

And if the creature moils and toils
What is it to this song?
This is a song of silver spoils,
Caught swinging along.

Last night I walked the city street,
Wearing a woman's veil.
Then there was laughter; then there were feet;
Then there was silver hail

And harps and shaking silver bells
And flutes within my brain;
I stood beside deep silver wells;
I said, "We rise again!"

Love, let no light moon ever rise
Until my joy has risen!
I could not suffer heaven's surprise,
Finding me in prison!

Mirth, let no mad moon ever sweep
Heaven, nor find my floor
Swept where I have leaped from sleep
And danced before the door!

Light, let no white moon hunt through heaven
Till I am hunting too!
When the silver bow is given
My thoughts are arrows true,

And when she stalks the starry plains
To fill her silver bowl,
I laugh in narrow lamplit lanes,
A silver sallying soul!

Huntress, huntress, hold it high,
Your globe of silver fire,
And I will draw and pierce the sky
And lift a star from the mire!

And if my hand be stained by the dye
Wherein all day it toils,
Still I come home beneath the sky
Bearing silver spoils.

You did not guess me, swinging along?
But if me my toil had tamed,
I could not tell you in a song,
For I should be ashamed!