The Cemetery of Amboise

I love to walk in the refuge of the dead.
There, dying to falsehood, I need less effort
To understand their language and grasp their thought:
For the dead do not hold that foolish idea
That everything is extinguished in man. In them, all is living.
For them, there is no more silence. Near them, one hears
The sobs of the sinner; the rages of the impious;
The hymns of the wise; and the sweet harmony
Of those whose friendship, zeal, and virtue
Formed but a single heart while they lived.
Man, it is here below that it took its birth,
That nothingness to which they wish to condemn your essence;
And it is your own error that serves as its support.
You know all! You can do all! And you wish to be nothing!
To be nothing! And to seize and judge the light!
Leave to the wandering man these dreams of the earth;
We were only drowsy in our dark bodies.
When time tears us from their muddy remains,
The hour that awakens us is an eternal hour.
Oh! Just one, what ecstasies! What new splendor!
You take another body, in the crucible a vessel used for high-temperature melting or purification of the grave;
A vivid radiance, always brighter and more beautiful;
A more piercing gaze; a more sonorous voice;
Even a purer heart. Thus when I evaporate
Those coarse fluids where the salt in alchemical terms, the stable or physical principle of a substance is captive,
Its fire regains its strength, and becomes more active.