But on these days of brightness,
On the far-stretching beauteous landscape, the roads and lanes,
  the high-piled farm-wagons, and the fruits and barns,
Shall the dead intrude?
  
Ah, the dead to me mar not -- they fit well in Nature;
They fit very well in the landscape, under the trees and grass,
And along the edge of the sky, in the horizon’s far margin.
  
Nor do I forget you, departed;
Nor in winter or summer, my lost ones;
But most, in the open air, as now, when my soul is rapt
  and at peace -- like pleasing phantoms,
Your dear memories, rising, glide silently by me.