How sweet it were, if without feeble fright, 
Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, 
An angel came to us, and we could bear 
To see him issue from the silent air 
At evening in our room, and bend on ours 
His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers 
News of dear friends, and children who have never 
Been dead indeed,--as we shall know forever. 
Alas! we think not what we daily see 
About our hearths,--angels that are to be, 
Or may be if they will, and we prepare 
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air;-- 
A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings 
In unison with ours, breeding its future wings.