Life treads on life, and heart on heart: We press too close in church and mart, To keep a dream or grave apart

Think, in mounting higher, The angels would press on us, and aspire To drop some golden orb of perfect song Into our deep, dear silence.

Earth's crammed with heaven...
But only he who sees, takes off his shoes.

Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death

O Life,
How oft we throw it off and think, — 'Enough,
Enough of life in so much! — here's a cause
For rupture; — herein we must break with Life,
Or be ourselves unworthy; here we are wronged,
Maimed, spoiled for aspiration: farewell Life!'
— And so, as froward babes, we hide our eyes
And think all ended. — Then, Life calls to us
In some transformed, apocryphal, new voice,
Above us, or below us, or around . .
Perhaps we name it Nature's voice, or Love's,
Tricking ourselves, because we are more ashamed
To own our compensations than our griefs:
Still, Life's voice! — still, we make our peace with Life.

Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.