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I cannot tell you if the dead,
That loved us fondly when on earth,
Walk by our side, sit at our hearth,
By ties of old affection led;


Or, looking earnestly within,
Know all our joys, hear all our sighs,
And watch us with their holy eyes
Whene'er we tread the paths of sin;


Or if with mystic lore and sign,
They speak to us, or press our hand,
And strive to make us understand
The nearness of their forms divine.


But this I know--in many dreams
They come to me from realms afar,
And leave the golden gates ajar,
Through which immortal glory streams.