But half a man's days—and his days were nights.
⁠What hearts were ours who loved him, should we pray
⁠That night would yield him back to darkling day,
Sweet death that soothes, to life that spoils and smites?
For now, perchance, life lovelier than the light's
⁠That shed no comfort on his weary way
⁠Shows him what none may dream to see or say
Ere yet the soul may scale those topless heights
Where death lies dead, and triumph. Haply there
⁠Already may his kindling eyesight find
Faces of friends—no face than his more fair—
⁠And first among them found of all his kind
Milton, with crowns from Eden on his hair,
⁠And eyes that meet a brother's now not blind.