That we might know, how are the dead;
Whether their state be happy or no;
My lost sire, I loved him so;
That I to him, might this have said.

It isn't enough in mood to fall,
Into those days, think what was ours;
For, weak and limited are those powers
To summon him again, and to recall

The gentle, and the still-adored.
O, limited, are the ways of man!
What mind, though gifted, can again,
Or ever has, this loss, restored?

I war with fancy; for it brings
Me to the brink of those last days,
And it but anguish, thought, repays,
And flees away on lightest wings.

Yet, come to me, who am laid low,
And say or whisper, and me, tell,
Loved and mourned, that all is well,
And I can peacefully let you go.