It fell as softly as the winter's snow:
There was no sound of storm nor any stress,
No fevered daring of Death's mightiness,
No struggle for a strong man's overthrow:
Just some few hours of moaning, soft and low,
Some hard-drawn breathing, quickly hushed, ah yes!
And then,--and then,--small white limbs motionless,
While we who wait must whisper as we go.
A face and voice we looked for lovingly
Lost from the fellowship of our small band:
One little ripple of Life's restless sea
Soothed into stillness by the Master's hand,
And missing here:--but a white soul to stand
In the vast Temple of Eternity.