Classic Poem

What do we call them? Idle, airy things
Broken by stir or sigh,
Or else sweet slumber's golden, gauzy wings
That into heaven can fly.

What may we call them? Miracles of might.
For such they are to us
When the grave bursts and yields us for a night
Some risen Lazarus.

And if no trace or memory of death
Cling to the throbbing form,
And in a dream we feel the very breath
Coming so fast and warm,—

Then all is real; we know life's waking thrill
While precious things are told;
Ay, such a dream is even stranger still
Than miracle of old.