Comfort, in November, the month of All Souls

Ascent of the Blessed by Hieronymus Bosch

Comfort

by May Doney

Ah! if we only dreamed how close they stand
Who were our flesh and blood once, and are still
A part of us in sympathy and will,
We should not grieve so, thinking death had banned
All sweet communion with life’s spirit-land,
But fancy in each faint delicious thrill
That stirs us when Heaven’s cisterns overfill,
Droppings of comfort some near love had planned.
Death brings them nearer to us: human sense,
Earth-dulled, is all the barrier that hides
The adjacent country where each one abides;
And we shall wonder, when we too pass hence,
Our hearts were thwarted by so frail a fence,
And could not break the weak wall that divides.


(H/T to Phil at Blue Eyed Ennis for the poem and illustration)




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