o feel
The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?

"Was the miracle greater to find how deep
Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep?

"Did life roll back its record, dear,
And show, as they say it does, past things clear?

"And was it the innermost heart of the bliss
To find out so, what a wisdom love is?

"O perfect dead! O dead most dear!
I hold the breath of my soul to hear.

"I listen as deep as to terrible hell,
As high as to heaven, and you do not tell.

"There must be pleasure in dying, sweet,
To make you so placid, from head to feet!

"I would tell you, darling, if I were dead,
And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,--

"I would say, though the Angel of Death had laid
His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid,--

"You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes,
Which of all deaths was the chiefest surprise,

"The very strangest and suddenest thing
Of all the surprises that dying must bring."

Ah, foolish world! O most kind dead!
Though he told me, who will believe it was said?

Who will believe that he heard her say,
With the old sweet voice, in the dear old way,

"The utmost wonder is this--I hear
And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear;

"And am your angel, who was your bride.
And know, that though dead, I have never died."

SHAPES OF DOOM

THE DEAD COACH: KATHERINE TYNAN

At night when sick folk wakeful lie,
I heard the dead coach passing by,
Heard it passing wild and fleet,
And knew my time had come not yet.

Click-clack, click-clack, the hoofs went past,
Who takes the dead coach travels fast,
On and away through the wild night,
The dead must rest ere morning light.

If one might follow on its track,
The coach and horses midnight black,
Within should sit a shape of doom
That beckons one and all to come.

God pity them to-night who wait
To hear the dead coach at their gate,
And him who hears, though sense be dim,
The mournful dead coach stop for him.

He shall go down with a still face,
And mount the steps and take his place,
The door be shut, the order said,
How fast the pace is with the dead!

Click-clack, click-clack, the hour is chill,
The dead coach climbs the distant hill.
Now, God, the Father of us all,
Wipe Thou the widow's tears that fall!

DEID FOLK'S FERRY: ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON

'Tis They, of a veritie--
They are calling thin an' shrill;
We maun rise an' put to sea,
We maun gi'e the deid their will,
We maun ferry them owre th