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THESE fair, fictitious people,The women plucked awayFrom our familiar notice,The men of ivory—
These boys and girls in canvasWho dwell upon the wallIn everlasting childhood,Where are they—can you tell?
Perhaps in places perfecter,Inheriting delightBeyond our small conjecture,Our scanty estimate.
Remembering ourselves, we trust,But blesseder than we,Through knowing where we only hope—Receiving—where we pray.
Of expectation also—Anticipating usWith transport that would be a pain,Except for Holiness—Esteeming us, as exiles,Themselves admitted homeThrough gentle miracle of DeathThe way ourselves must come.
