When all is quiet where there has been laughter,
And the last voice has faded fdown the lane
The house is rich from corner-stone to rafter
With a pervasive glory tinged with pain.
The walls and ceilings echo still, though faintly,
With singing that has flown into the night;
The emptiness is thronged with choirs saintly
Far dwindling down the corridors of light.
And as the embers of the hearth go out for ever,
And the last wisps of smoke melt to the sky.
I wonder if the fruits of all endeavour
Are doomed, like earth’s frail pageantry, to die.
Or will there be in some transcendent morning,
Lit by the lamps of hopes and dreams fulfilled,
A state of bliss where hearts, heav’n’s light adorning,
May find their joy complete, their trembling stilled?