Who
speak their feeling as it is,
And weep the fulness from the mind:
‘It will be hard,’ they say, ‘to find
Another
service such as this.’
My
lighter moods are like to these,
That out of words a comfort win;
But there are other griefs within,
And
tears that at their fountain freeze;
For
by the hearth the children sit
Cold in that atmosphere of Death,
And scarce endure to draw the breath,
Or
like to noiseless phantoms flit:
But
open converse is there none,
So much the vital spirits sink
To see the vacant chair, and think,
‘How
good! how kind! and he is gone.’