HOW sweet it were, if without feeble fright,

Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight,
An angel came to us, and we could bear
To see him issue from the silent air

At evening in our room, and bend on ours
His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers
News of dear friends and children who have never
Been dead indeed, as we shall know forever.
Alas! we think not what we daily see

About our hearths, angels, that are to be,

Or may be if they will; and we prepare
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air,

A child, a friend, a wife, whose soft heart sings
In unison with ours, breeding its future wings.

Leigh Hunt.

SHE

"HE AND SHE."

HE is dead!" they said to him; come away;
Kiss her and leave her, thy love is clay !"

They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair;
On her forehead of stone they laid it fair;

With a tender touch they closed up well
The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;

About her brows and beautiful face

They tied her veil and her marriage lace;

And over her bosom they crossed her hands,
"Come away!" they said; "God understands."

And they held their breath till they left the room,
With a shudder, to glance at its stillness and its gloom.

But he who loved her too well to dread
The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,

"He and She."

He lighted his lamp and took the key

And turned it,

alone again, he and she.

He and she; but she would not speak,

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Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek.

He and she; yet she would not smile,
Though he called her the name she loved erewhile.

He and she still she did not move

To any one passionate whisper of love.

Then he said: "Cold lips and breast without breath, Is there no voice, no language of death,

"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, But to heart and to soul distinct, intense?

"See now; I will listen with soul, not ear. What was the secret of dying, dear?

"Was it the infinite wonder of all
That you ever could let life's flower fall;

"Or was it a greater marvel to feel The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?

"Was the miracle greater to find how deep Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep?

"Did life roll back its records, dear;

And show, as they say it does, past things clear?

"And was it the innermost part of the bliss To find out so, what a wisdom love is?

"O perfect dead! O dead most dear, I hold the breath of my soul to hear!

"There must be pleasure in dying, sweet, To make you so placid from head to feet!

"I would tell you, darling, if I were dead,
And 't were your hot tears upon my brow shed,

"I would say, though the Angel of Death had laid His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid.

"You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes, Which of all deaths was the chiefest surprise,

"The very strangest and suddenest thing Of all the surprises that dying must bring."

"He and She."

Ah, foolish world! O most kind dead !

Though he told me, who will believe it was said?

Who will believe that he heard her say,

With the sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way:

"The utmost wonder is this, I hear,
And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear;

"And am your angel, who was your bride,
And know that, though dead, I have never died."

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Sir Edwin Arnold.