Classic Poem

These beautiful tales, I trust, are true.
But here is a grave in the moss,
And there is the sky. And the buds are blue,
And a butterfly blows across.

Yes, here is the grave and there is the sky; —
To the one or the other we go.
And between them wavers the butterfly,
Like a soul that does not know,

Somewhere? Nowhere? Too-golden head,
And lips that I miss and miss,
You would tell me the secret of the dead —
Could I find you with a kiss!

. . . . Come here, I say, little child of mine,
Come with your bloom and breath.
(If he should believe in the life divine,
I will not believe in death!)

" Where is your brother? " — I question low,
And wait for his wise reply.
Does he say, " Down there in the grave? " Ah, no; —
He says, with a laugh, " In the sky! "