Sonnet

Not with vain tears, when we’re beyond the sun,

We’ll beat on the substantial doors, nor tread

Those dusty high-roads of the aimless dead

Plaintive for Earth; but rather turn and run

Down some close-covered by-way of the air,

Some low sweet alley between wind and wind,

Stoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, find

Some whispering ghost-forgotten nook, and there

Spend in pure converse our eternal day;

Think each in each, immediately wise;

Learn all we lacked before; hear, know, and say

What this tumultuous body now denies;

And feel, who have laid our groping hands away;

And see, no longer blinded by our eyes.