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Footsteps of Angels
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WHEN the hours of Day are numbered,
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And the voices of the
Night
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Wake the better soul, that
slumbered,
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To a holy, calm
delight;
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Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
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5
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And, like phantoms
grim and tall,
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Shadows from the fitful firelight
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Dance upon the parlor
wall;
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Then the forms of the departed
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Enter at the open
door;
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10
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The beloved, the true-hearted,
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Come to visit me once
more;
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He, the young and strong, who
cherished
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Noble longings for the
strife,
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By the roadside fell and perished,
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15
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Weary with the march
of life!
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They, the holy ones and weakly,
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Who the cross of
suffering bore,
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Folded their pale hands so meekly,
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Spake with us on earth
no more!
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20
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And with them the Being Beauteous,
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Who unto my youth was
given,
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More than all things else to love
me,
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And is now a saint in
heaven.
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With a slow and noiseless footstep
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25
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Comes that messenger
divine,
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Takes the vacant chair beside me,
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Lays her gentle hand
in mine.
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And she sits and gazes at me
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With those deep and
tender eyes,
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30
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Like the stars, so still and
saint-like,
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Looking downward from
the skies.
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Uttered not, yet comprehended,
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Is the spirit's
voiceless prayer,
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Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
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35
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Breathing from her
lips of air.
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Oh, though oft depressed and
lonely,
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All my fears are laid
aside,
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If I but remember only
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Such as these have
lived and died!
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