When the hours of Day are numbered, <br />And the voices of the Night <br />Wake the better soul, that slumbered, <br />To a holy, calm delight; <br /> <br />Ere the evening lamps are lighted, <br />And, like phantoms grim and tall, <br />Shadows from the fitful firelight <br />Dance upon the parlor wall; <br /> <br />Then the forms of the departed <br />Enter at the open door; <br />The beloved, the true-hearted, <br />Come to visit me once more; <br /> <br />He, the young and strong, who cherished <br />Noble longings for the strife, <br />By the roadside fell and perished, <br />Weary with the march of life! <br /> <br />They, the holy ones and weakly, <br />Who the cross of suffering bore, <br />Folded their pale hands so meekly, <br />Spake with us on earth no more! <br /> <br />And with them the Being Beauteous, <br />Who unto my youth was given, <br />More than all things else to love me, <br />And is now a saint in heaven. <br /> <br />With a slow and noiseless footstep <br />Comes that messenger divine, <br />Takes the vacant chair beside me, <br />Lays her gentle hand in mine. <br /> <br />And she sits and gazes at me <br />With those deep and tender eyes, <br />Like the stars, so still and saint-like, <br />Looking downward from the skies. <br /> <br />Uttered not, yet comprehended, <br />Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, <br />Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, <br />Breathing from her lips of air. <br /> <br />Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, <br />All my fears are laid aside, <br />If I but remember only <br />Such as these have lived and died!<br /><br />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/voices-of-the-night-footsteps-of-angels/
