Of nearness to her sundered Things
The Soul has special times-
When Dimness-looks the Oddity-

The Shapes we buried, dwell about,
Familiar, in the Rooms-
Untarnished by the Sepulchre,
The Mouldering Playmate comes-

In just the Jacket that he wore-
Long buttoned in the Mold
Since we-old mornings, Children-played-
Divided-by a world-

The Grave yields back her Robberies-
The Years, our pilfered Things-
Bright Knots of Apparitions
Salute us, with their wings-

As we-it were-that perished-
Themself-had just remained till we rejoin them-
And 'twas they, and not ourself
That mourned.