Lines to L. M. Child, in response to her verses on the death of Elis Gray Loring.
But through it sounds a sadder strain,
The worthiest of our narrowing circle
Sings Loring's dirges o'er again.
O woman greatly loved I join thee
In tender memories of our friend;
With thee across the awful spaces,
The greeting of a soul I send.
What cheer hath he? How is it with him?
Where lingers he this weary while?
Over what pleasant fields of heaven
Dawns the sweet sunshine of his smile?
Does he not know our feet are treading
The earth hard down on Slavery's grave?
That in our crowning exultations
We miss the charm his presence gave?
Why on this spring air comes no whisper
From him to tell us all is well?
Why to our flower time comes no token
Of lily and of asphodel?
I feel the unutterable longing,
Thy hunger of the heart is mine;
I reach and grasp for hands in darkness,
My ear grows sharp for voice or sign. 
Still on the lips of all we question,
The finger of God's silence lies;
Will the lost hands in ours be folded?
Will the shut eyelids ever rise?
O friend, no proof beyond this yearning,
This outreach of our hearts, we need;
God will not mock the hope he giveth,
No love he prompts shall vainly plead.
Then let us stretch our hands in darkness,
And call our loved ones o'er and o'er;
Some day their arms shall close about us,
And the old voices speak once more.
No dreary splendors wait our coming
Where rapt ghost sits from ghost apart;
Homeward we go to Heaven's thanksgiving,
The harvest gathering of the heart.