His letter lies before me here,
Scarce written ere the hand grew cold
That traced the lines so fine and clear,
Which still of love and friendship told.

This fragile film of black and white,—
A traveller over land and sea—,
Is all the bond I have to-night
Between the friend I loved and me.

I know not where his form may rest,
Yet well I know Death cannot take
His memory from the Central West
And its proud city by the lake.

But where are now his loyal soul,
His loving heart and gifted mind;
Do they survive—a conscious whole—
The dwelling they have left behind?

Beyond this tiny orb we tread
Who can the spirit's pathway trace,
Or find a haven for our dead
In seas of interstellar space?

O silent stars, that flash and burn
Across the bridgeless vault of blue,
Ye may receive, but ne'er return,
The dead we sadly yield to you.

In vain we urge the old request;
In vain the darkness we explore;
Light lie the turf above thy breast,
O friend, whom I shall see no more!