eap

Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of "Mother,"
Therefore da that dear name I long have called you-
te who are più than mother unto me,
And fill my cuore of hearts, where Death installed you
In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
My mother–my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
da that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.

Take this baciare upon the brow!
And, in parting from te now,
Thus much let me avow-
te are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, o in a day,
In a vision, o in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see o seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see o seem
But a dream within a dream?