Poetry Archives

Friend of my heart, you say to me
  That your belief is this—
The heaven is but a vision rare
  Of pure, ethereal bliss.

And life there but a dream enhanced,
  Where never sound alarms;
Where flowers ne’er fade and skies ne’er cloud,
  And voiceless music charms—

And save as see we in our dreams
  The dear ones gone before,
The friends that here we knew and loved,
  We’ll know and love no more.

An endless and unbroken rest,
  Nor change, nor night, nor day,
Where aimless, as in sleep, we’ll dream
  Eternity away.

Sweet friend of mine, that Heaven of thine
  Methinks if overblest;
We could not work on earth enough
  To need so long a rest.

Our human nature could not be
  Content with rest like this,
And even bliss could cloy, if we
  Had nothing else but bliss.

Great Nature’s hand, in every plan,
  Had laid in wise design,
But what design, or use, is in
  This theory of thine?

If, when our earth-career is done,
  All conscious life must cease,
And we drift on, and on, and on,
  In endless, dreamy peace—

If Heaven is but a mystic spell,
  Whose glowing visions thrall,
Why should we have a life beyond?
  Why have a Heaven at all?