If I hear birds lamenting, or green leaves
shift softly at the press of summer air,
or catch the murmured splash of shining waves
from this cool, flowering bank, then I see her
as I sit here and write, thinking of love,
whom Heaven showed us, hidden now in clay;
I see, hear, understand her; she’s alive,
attentive to my sighs from far away.
‘Why be consumed with grief?’ she kindly says.
‘Your time’s not yet. From your sad eyes why flows
this stream of sorrows that impairs your sight?
Don’t weep for me. After I died, my days
became eternal; when I seemed to close
my eyes, they opened on the inner light.’
