Page:Poems Angier.djvu/69

Then hive them in ray own bright world,
 Where poison-flower ne'er grew.

The loved seem never lost to me,
 For in my world they dwell
Whom some call dead are living here,
 Where sounds nor dirge nor knell.

The poet's world—a beauteous world—
 Would it to all were given;
But each may share a home more fair
 Than his faint type of heaven.