I cannot tell you if the dead,
That loved us fondly when on earth,
Walk by our side, sit at our hearth,
By ties of old affection led;

Or, looking earnestly within,
Know all our joys, hear all our sighs.
And watch us with their holy eyes
Whene'er we tread the paths of sin;

Or if with mystic lore and sign.
They speak to us, or press our hand.
And strive to make us understand
The nearness of their forms divine.

But this I know, — in many dreams
They come to us from realms afar,
And leave the golden gates ajar.
Through which immortal glory streams.