1870-? Canada
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.