The Same (Might we make quest ...)

By Anne Whitney

Might we make quest, through this soft circling sky,
In whose wide breath that little breath was lost,
Which sweetened all our air, for the dear ghost,
It were in vain, we know: -- but happily
When the poor frame dissolves, the spirit high
Makes it her messenger to the elements,
Which tell us by unnumbered fair events,
What the heart yearns to know: aye, to the sigh
Of ever-questioning love, even heaven unbars
Joyful, its azure-gated mystery,
And says, Who wings a thought, poor though it be,
From his meek distance upward to my stars,
Is linked to God in whose great thought they are,
And his imperishable life must share.