HopeSmiles from the threshold of the year to come, Whispering 'it will be happier'...

How fares it with the happy dead?

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.

As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.

Hope Smiles from the threshold of the year to come, Whispering 'it will be happier'...

We needs must love the highest when we see it.