George Moreby Acklom

1870-? Canada

In Memoriam

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.