Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool.
But while I breathe Heaven's air and Heaven looks down on me, And smiles at my best meanings, I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul.
And every dew-drop paints a bow.
How fares it with the happy dead?
God and Nature met in light.
Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, And the individual withers, and the world is more and more.