TO A FRIEND AFTER THE LOSS OF A CHILD?

When on my ear your loss was knelled,

And tender sympathy upburst,

A little spring from memory welled

Which once had quenched my bitter thirst—

And I was fain to bear to you

A portion of its mild relief,

That it might be as cooling dew

To steal some fever from your grief.

After our child's untroubled breath

Up to the Father took its way,

And on our home the shade of death

Like a long twilight haunting lay,

And friends came round with us to weep

The little spirit's swift remove—

This story of the Alpine sheep

Was told to us by one we love.

They, in the valley's sheltering care,

Soon crop their meadow's tender prime—

And when the sod grows brown and bare,

The shepherd strives to make them climb

To any shelves of pasture green

That hang along the mountain side,

Where grass and flowers together lean,

And down through mists the sunbeams glide.

But nought can lure the timid things

The steep and rugged path to try,

Though sweet the shepherd call and sing,

And seared below the pastures lie—

Till in his arms their lambs he takes,

Along the dizzy verge to go—

When, heedless of the rifts and breaks,

They follow on o'er rock and snow.

And in those pastures lifted fair,

More dewy soft than lowland mead,

The shepherd drops his tender care,

And sheep and lambs together feed.

This parable, by Nature breathed,

Blew on me as the south wind free

O'er frozen brooks that float unsheathed

From icy thraldom to the sea.

This parable, by Nature breathed,

Blew on me as the south wind free

O'er frozen brooks that float unsheathed

From icy thraldom to the sea.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,

By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,

He lives whom we call dead.

—A poem by Mrs James Russell Lowell, Light on the Hidden Way

How to find comfort in poems about grief?

TO A FRIEND AFTER THE LOSS OF A CHILD

The eternal question?

And so the soul—

When it is freed at last from earthly bonds.

Flies from its prison-house to its true home.

On earth it was encumbered, incomplete,

Dumb and half-blind, struggling with earth and sin—

Striving and groping on its darkened way—

With the eternal question on its lips

Eternally unanswered—Why?

Until the angel comes with outstretched wings.

Dark underneath to him, but light above

That angel, which like two-faced Janus stands,

One face forever turned towards the past,

The other forward to the life to come

That dreaded messenger from the Unseen

Who is called Death by you, but Life by us.

How would this world appear to you if you could enter it in your present body?

Who looks down from heaven?

A call to spiritual attention?

He that hath ears to hear, let him hear what the angel saith unto the churches.

The afterlife environment?

The afterlife environment is a blend of familiar earthly elements (towns, nature, music) without dirt, cruelty or despair, experienced through thought-impression and soul forms rather than physical senses.

Who are the angels that stand before God?

Who looks down from heaven?

In what position do they stand to you then?

Who looks down from heaven?

Who looks down from heaven?

In what position do they stand to you then?

In the position of the angels of the churches, spoken of by John. They were those who had passed over from our world into the next world, but had not yet reached that higher state where the Master was at that time.

These are true and wise angels to you.

They try to be true and wise angels to you and give you some of the results of their collective knowledge and experience. Still imperfect, full of faults, yet striving to grow towards perfection, they were aiding their brethren on earth as far as they could.

He that hath ears to hear, let him hear what the angel saith unto the churches.

Some here do not care for the counterpart of our home life. That may be because the habits of mind and the character with which they come over are opposed to it, but still with all there must be some choice of companionship, some affinity with one more than another, and to most the special companionship of one is almost a necessity for the happy development of their being.

This is especially a characteristic of modem and western nations.

Such companionship is a blessed thing, and is the true marriage of which the earthly is only a broken shadow. 

But there is one great point of difference. 

This marriage is not necessarily between those who on earth were of an opposite sex—the body is cast off, and the psyche knows nothing of male or female.

All are One in their Great Head—the Head of the Whole Human Family—the Most Perfect Man.

It is the two types of character, which on earth are generally masculine and feminine that are best suited to become one in spirit—

Therefore, it is not strange that real union on earth should often be continued here, though it is not necessarily, nor always so.

Here the great power of insight that spirits have into each other’s true being prevents mistakes, and the affections and the reason being united, all discord and disappointment are prevented. Yet occasionally, spirits see some grow in such different ways that they fall apart, but without any bitterness. These unions are unions of perfect responsiveness and sympathy—

Each can speak more fully to the other, and cause to be heard or seen by them all the beautiful visions that they have. A greater power both in giving and receiving constitutes the bond.

I saw the Holy City, New Jerusalem

You may by this time have gained the impression that spirits have described their lives as a strange mixture of natural and spiritual—they have spoken of houses, lands, clothes, food, books, and have spoken of the willpower as the great creative agency of soul impressions rather than bodily senses.

That impression would be in the main a correct one, for their life here is a mingling of the old and the new, the past and the present, not yet wholly spirit, nor wholly of earth, they partake of both natures.

Like a girl who is just between childhood and womanhood may be a child one day and a woman the next—or like a dragonfly just emerging from its case comes out with wings, it is true, but they are folded ones, and for a time that bears some proportion to his short life, he seems rather to crawl on these folded wings, as if he were a grub, than to open them and fly away.

Their pleasures and their duties are never separated here, as they sometimes are with us. 

There is no such thing as a pleasure disconnected from work, growth or duty—neither is there any beauty disconnected from true life, nor any idle sorrow or grief that is not distinctly healing in its effect, cleansing or raising the soul.

There is no weariness, such as comes from mere ennui or from a vacant mind—real honest fatigue of the body comes only from the imperfection of the growing soul, not yet strong enough to bear all the strain put on it by its spirit lord.

In our world, we have the visible, physical life in all stages of development, and in all forms—the rock, the flower, the animal, and the man. 

We have, also, mental life in all stages, from the simplest animal instinct to the most complex brain of man. 

So, in our world, we have the psychic life in all stages, that life which may be said to be outward and visible to our psychic senses. 

We have, also, the spirit life, unseen, except in its outcome, as it manifests itself through the psychic. Thus, we have trees and stones, animals and man—

All with the same kind of life running through them, but not to the same degree.

How would this world appear to you if you could enter it in your present body?

The old simile of the fish and the bird would be true.

The fish that sees, breathes, and flies through the water could not change with the bird, the air would be too strong for him, and his powers, so perfect in themselves, could not adjust themselves to their new surroundings.

We are the fish, and spirits are the bird. We would find their air too strong for us, and they should find ours too heavy for them.

Spirits enter into our world only through its reflected, but true soul form—they see the pictures of earthly things reflected in us, as we see things reflected by, and on the eye.

Imagine yourself, however, over here, and with the help of what spirits have told us try to see the new world. The first sensation would be of surprise that it is so much like our own—what would first strike you would be the resemblance—town and country, sea and grass, flowers and fruit, men and women and children—life and motion. 

But the differences would soon begin to press upon your notice. The absence of all dirt, sordid misery, haggard and overburdened faces, and savage and sin-sodden countenances. 

Sorrowful ones you might see, grave faces, as well as bright, shining, outgoing looks—you would see people at work of various kinds, but anything resembling the whip of the taskmaster would be absent. Weariness might occasionally be noticed, but not impatience or despair.

Perhaps the next thing you would notice would be the close fellowship you would have with all forms of Nature around you, and your power over what spirits call the lower power for your good, but not for the injury of anything.

The air you breathe out, for instance, is no longer poisoned for our brother’s use—the grass you walk on is not trodden down and spoiled for other feet—the flowers you gather do not leave bleeding stalks behind them to wither and become unpleasing to the eye.

The sea will no longer divide or be an instrument of death, but rather a friend if only you trust yourself to it. The mountain will no longer be a barrier for toilsome and dangerous climbing, but a friend from whose surface you may see a wider stretch of the new country.

All things will be very good to you if you let your nature have full play, and live according to its simple laws.

Should you hear music, you would find an answering strain rise up within your being. You might look in vain for any instrument from which the strains could have proceeded, but instead of an organ, the player would play upon the strings of your inner being, and they would respond fully and perfectly to his touch.

Then again there is a great difference in the way you converse with those you meet. 

At first, you would naturally use your own language or seem to do so, as in a dream (let us say). 

As you were understood and answered, it would seem as if they, also, spoke the same language, but in a little while, you would see that it was not the outward language, which they comprehended and replied to, but that you made them feel your meaning, and they in return impressed their thoughts upon you. Thus, you would find in a hundred ways that the old was passing away, and that all things were becoming new.

And so the soul—

When it is freed at last from earthly bonds.

Flies from its prison-house to its true home.

On earth it was encumbered, incomplete,

Dumb and half-blind, struggling with earth and sin—

Striving and groping on its darkened way—

With the eternal question on its lips

Eternally unanswered—Why?

Until the angel comes with outstretched wings.

Dark underneath to him, but light above

That angel, which like two-faced Janus stands,

One face forever turned towards the past,

The other forward to the life to come

That dreaded messenger from the Unseen

Who is called Death by you, but Life by us.

When spirits speak of growth, childhood and manhood, of course, they do not mean growth in days or in years. 

The psyche grows only in soul-ways, waxing strong in spirit—that is, there comes to the soul increased power of manifesting itself a more varied and fuller life. 

This growth is not always at the same rate, sometimes, the soul seems to remain stationary or even decline for a while, but speaking generally, progress is the law of the new nature, as of the old.

Progress is the law of the new nature, as of the old.

But there is not that failure of the powers that there is with us in old age. The soul, when it reaches the highest point of perfection, when it is truly matured, is prepared for another form of life, and departs to higher regions.

The time of our departure is not in any way fixed by our own will or sense of fitness.

Generally, we become aware when our hour is at hand—a higher power than our own above us, yet in us, sweetly constrains us to depart. The body, which we have then dissolves, disappears, is restored to the sphere from which it was taken, as our bodies (though much less quickly) return to the earth from which they were derived.

Painlessly, and naturally, the tent is taken down—the old earth and the old heaven vanish away, and the new heavens appear to us in all their spiritual beauty. Thus we leave behind us no corrupting body to hurt or annoy, but fade away from the vision like a cloud. 

All that was psychic remains in the psychic sphere, and our spirits enter into the third state, which has been called final, simply because we know nothing of what lies beyond it.