I did not know before
That we dead could rise and walk;
That our voices, as of yore,
Would blend in gentle talk.
I did not know her eyes
Would so haunt mine after death,
Or that she could hear my sighs,
Low as the harp-string's breath.
But, ah, last night we met!
From our stilly trance we rose,
Thrilled with all the old regret —
The grieving that God knows.
She asked: “Am I forgiven?” —
“And dost thou forgive?” I said,
Ah! how long for joy we'd striven!
But now our hearts were dead.
Alas, for the lips I kissed
And the sweet hope, long ago!
On her grave chill hangs the mist;
On mine, white lies the snow.
Hearkening still, I hear this strain
From the ninth opal's varied vein: