When D Hours Of The Were Numbered Poem by akingbehin daniel murphy

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