“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.