Spectres That Grieve

"It is not death that harrows us," they lipped,     "The soundless cell is in itself relief,     For life is an unfenced flower, benumbed and nipped     At unawares, and at its best but brief."     The speakers, sundry phantoms of the gone,     Had risen like filmy flames of phosphor dye,     As if the palest of sheet lightnings shone     From the sward near me, as from a nether sky.     And much surprised was I that, spent and dead,     They should not, like the many, be at rest,     But stray as apparitions; hence I said,     "Why, having slipped life, hark you back distressed?     "We are among the few death sets not free,     The hurt, misrepresented names, who come     At each year's brink, and cry to History     To do them justice, or go past them dumb.     "We are stript of rights; our shames lie unredressed,     Our deeds in full anatomy are not shown,     Our words in morsels merely are expressed     On the scriptured page, our motives blurred, unknown."     Then all these shaken slighted visitants sped     Into the vague, and left me musing there     On fames that well might instance what they had said,     Until the New-Year's dawn strode up the air.