Footsteps of Angels Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

When the hours of Day are numbered,
        And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
        To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
        And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
        Dance upon the parlor wall;

Then the forms of the departed
        Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
        Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherished
        Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perished,
        Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
        Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
        Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous,
        Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
        And is now a saint in heaven.