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Those fair—fictitious People—
The Women—plucked away
From our familiar Lifetime—
The Men of Ivory—
Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas—
Who stay upon the Wall
In Everlasting Keepsake—
Can Anybody tell?
We trust—in places perfecter—
Inheriting Delight
Beyond our faint Conjecture—
Our dizzy Estimate—
Remembering ourselves, we trust—
Yet Blesseder—than We—
Through Knowing—where We only hope—
Receiving—where we—pray—
Of Expectation—also—
Anticipating us
With transport, that would be a pain
Except for Holiness—
Esteeming us—as Exile—
Themself—admitted Home—
Through easy Miracle of Death—
The Way ourself, must come—
