I cannot tell you if the dead, That loved us fondly when on
earth, Walk by our side, sit at our hearth, By ties of old affection
led; Or, looking earnestly within, Know all our joys, hear all our
sighs, And watch us with their holy eyes Whene'er we tread the paths of
sin; Or if with mystic lore and sign, They speak to us, or press our
hand, And strive to make us understand The nearness of their forms
divine. But this I know--in many dreams They come to me from realms afar, And
leave the golden gates ajar, Through which immortal glory streams.