WHAT do we call them? Idle, airy things
Broken by stir or sigh,
Or else sweet slumber’s golden, gauzy wings
That into heaven can fly.
What may we call them ? Miracles of might.
For such they are to us
When the grave bursts and yields us for a night
Some risen Lazarus.
And if no trace or memory of death
Cling to the throbbing form,
And in a dream we feel the very breath
Coming so fast and warm, —
Then all is real; we know life’s waking thrill
While precious things are told,
Ay, such a dream is even stranger still
Than miracles of old.
Charlotte F. Bates.