If, at this dim and silent hour,

Spirits have a power

To wander from their homes of light,

And on the winds of night

To come, and to a human eye

Stand visible, like mortality —

Come thou, the lost Marcelia, thou —

And on thy sunny brow

Bear all thy beauty as of old,

For I dare behold

Whatever sights sublime there be,

So I may once more look on thee.

Or be thou like a daemon thing,

Or shadow hovering,

Or like the bloody shapes that come

With torch and sound of drum,

Scaring the warrior’s slumbers, I

Will welcome thee, and wish thee nigh.

And I would talk of the famous brave,

Of the dead, and their house the grave,

And feel its wondrous silentness,

And pity those whom none may bless,

And see how far the gaping tomb

Stretches its spectral arms — and hear my doom.

And I would know how long they lie

On their dark beds who die,

And if they feel, or joy, or weep,

Or ever dare to sleep

In that strange land of shadows. Thou

Whom I do call, come hither — now.

But there thou art, a radiant spirit,

And dost inherit

Earlier than others thy blue home,

And art free to roam

Like a visiting beam, from star to star,

And shed thy smiles from skies afar.

Then, soft and gentle beauty, be

Still like a star to me;

And I will ever turn at night

Unto thy soothing light,

And fancy, while before thine eyes,

I am full in the smile of Paradise.