Yet the days pass like frightened ghosts. We too
Pass in a twinkling through this world of glory.
Beauty remains; but we are transitory.
Ten thousand years from now will fall the dew,
And high in heaven still hang that arch of blue;
The rose will still repeat its perfect story,
And after generations dim and hoary,
The world will be a garden, clean and new.

Do we come back to haunt the best-loved places?
Are we the wind that murmurs in the pines?
Or does a Power that to the dust consigns
Our bodies, give us back fresh forms and faces,
And bid us be like actors with new lines,
To ponder on earth's beauty and earth's graces?