"What can my departed soul feel then? Can it see or know what happens to the clay? Can spirits, through any medium, communicate with living flesh? Can the dead at all revisit those they leave? Can they come in the elements? Will wind, water, fire, lend me a path to Moore?
"Is it for nothing the wind sounds almost articulately sometimes--sings as I have lately heard it sing at night--or passes the casement sobbing, as if for sorrow to come? Does nothing, then, haunt it, nothing inspire it?
"Why, it suggested to me words one night; it poured a strain which I could have written down, only I was appalled, and dared not rise to seek pencil and paper by the dim watch-light.

"What can my departed soul feel then? Can it see or know what happens to the clay? Can the dead revisit those they leave? Can they come in the elements? Will wind, water, fire, lend me a path to Moore?
"Is it for nothing the wind sings at night - or sobs, as if for sorrow to come? Does nothing haunt it, nothing inspire it?
"Why, it suggested to me words one night; I would have written them down, only they appalled me.
