Not With Vain Tears, When We're Beyond The Sun, We'll Beat On The Substantial Doors, Nor Tread Those Dusty High-Roads Of The Aimless Dead Plaintive For Earth; But Rather Turn And Run Down Some Close-Covered By-Way Of The Air, Some Low Sweet Alley Between Wind And Wind, Stoop Under Faint Gleams, Thread The Shadows, Find Some Whispering Ghost-Forgotten Nook, And There Spend In Pure Converse Our Eternal Day; Think Each In Each, Immediately Wise; Learn All We Lacked Before; Hear, Know, And Say What This Tumultuous Body Now Denies; And Feel, Who Have Laid Our Groping Hands Away; And See, No Longer Blinded By Our Eyes.