607

Of nearness to her sundered Things
The Soul has special times
When Dimness—looks the Oddity
Distinctness—easy—seems

The Shapes we buried, dwell about
Familiar, in the Rooms
Untarnished by the Sepulchre
The Mouldering Playmate comes

In just the Jacket that he wore
Long buttoned in the Mold
Since we—old mornings, Children—played
Divided—by a world

The Grave yields back her Robberies
The Years, our pilfered Things
Bright Knots of Apparitions
Salute us, with their wings

As we—it were—that perished—
Themself—had just remained till we rejoin them
And 'twas they, and not ourself
That mourned