Wherever the dead are there they are and
Nothing more. But you and I can expect
To see angels in the meadowgrass that look
Like cows—
And wherever we are is paradise
       in furnished room without bath and
       six flights up
Is all God! We read
To one another, loving the sound of s’s
Slipping up on the t’s and much is good
Enough to raise hair on our heads, like 
       Rilke and Owen

Any person who loves another person,
Wherever in the world, is with us in this room—
       even though there are battlefields.