The Dead Poem by Martin Farquhar Tupper

I love the dead!
The precious spirits gone before,
And waiting on that peaceful shore
To meet with welcome looks
and kiss me yet once more.

I love the dead!
And fondly doth my fancy paint
Each dear one, wash'd from earthly taint
By patience and by hope
made a most gentle saint.

O glorious dead!
Without one spot upon the dress
Of your ethereal loveliness,
Ye linger round me still
with earnest will to bless.

Enfranchised dead!
Each fault and failing left behind,
And nothing now to chill or bind,
How gloriously ye reign
in majesty of mind!

O royal dead!
The resting, free, unfetter'd dead,
The yearning, conscious, holy dead,
The hoping, waiting, calm,
the happy, changeless dead!

I love the dead!
And well forget their little ill,
Eager to bask my memory still
In all their best of words
and deeds and ways and will.

I bless the dead!
Their good, half choked by this world's weeds,
Is blooming now in heavenly meads,
And ripening golden fruit
of all those early seeds.

I trust the dead!
They understand me frankly now,
There are no clouds on heart or brow,
But spirit, reading spirit,
answereth glow for glow.

I praise the dead!
All their tears are wiped away,
Their darkness turn'd to perfect day,--
How blessed are the dead,
how beautiful be they!

O gracious dead!
That watch me from your paradise
With happy tender starlike eyes,
Let your sweet influence rain
me blessings from the skies.

Yet, helpless dead,
Vainly my yearning nature dares
Such unpremeditated prayers;
All vain it were for them:
as even for me theirs.

Immortal dead!
Ye in your lot are fix'd as fate,
And man or angel is too late
To beckon back by prayer
one change upon your state.

O godlike dead,
Ye that do rest, like Noah's dove,
Fearless I leave you to the love
Of Him who gave you peace
to bear with you above!

And ye, the dead,
Godless on earth, and gone astray,
Alas, your hour is past away,--
The Judge is just; for you
it now were sin to pray.

Still, all ye dead,
First may be last and last be first,--
Charity counteth no man curst,
But hopeth still in Him
whose love would save the worst.

Therefore, ye dead,
I love you, be ye good or ill,
For God, our God, doth love me still,
And you He loved on earth
with love that nought could chill.

And some, just dead,
To me on earth most deeply dear,
Who loved and nursed and blest me here,
I love you with a love
that casteth out all fear:

Come near me, Dead!
In spirit come to me, and kiss,--
No! -- I must wait awhile for this:
A few few years or days,
and I, too, feed on bliss!