“There is no death”

There is no death! the stars go down To rise upon some other shore, And bright in heaven’s jewelled crown They shine forever more. There is no death! the forest leaves Convert to life the viewless air; The rocks disorganize to feed The hungry moss they bear. There is no death! the dust we tread Shall change, beneath the summer showers, To golden grain, or mellow fruit, Or rainbow-tinted flowers. There is no death! the leaves may fall, The flowers may fade and pass away— They only wait, through wintry hours, The warm sweet breath of May. There is no death! the choicest gifts That heaven hath kindly lent to earth Are ever first to seek again The country of their birth. And all things that for growth of joy Are worthy of our love or care, Whose loss has left us desolate, Are safely garnered there. Though life become a dreary waste, We know its fairest, sweetest flowers, Transplanted into paradise, Adorn immortal bowers. The voice of bird-like melody That we have missed and mourned so long Now mingles with the angel choir In everlasting song. There is no death! although we grieve When beautiful, familiar forms That we have learned to love are torn From our embracing arms; Although with bowed and breaking heart, With sable garb and silent tread, We bear their senseless dust to rest, And say that they are “dead.” They are not dead! they have but passed Beyond the mists that blind us here Into the new and larger life Of that serener sphere. They have but dropped their robe of clay To put their shining raiment on; They have not wandered far away— They are not “lost” or “gone.” Though disenthralled and glorified, They still are here and love us yet; The dear ones they have left behind They never can forget. And sometimes, when our hearts grow faint Amid temptations fierce and deep, Or when the wildly raging waves Of grief or passion sweep, We feel upon our fevered brow Their gentle touch, their breath of balm; Their arms enfold us, and our hearts Grow comforted and calm. And ever near us, though unseen, The dear, immortal spirits tread; For all the boundless universe Is life—there are no dead. 1863.