I owe a debt of thanks
To him who chose from out the angelic ranks
One having power to kill
With sweetest tenderness and perfect skill.

So sad it might have been!
Some noble souls die hard,
Tortured and racked, pain-marred:
Some suffer terribly, and not for sin.

But she, my mother, gently fell asleep,
No time to raise a hand;
The attack was subtly planned;
The eyes closed, ere the eyes had time to weep.

The head not even dropped
Forward, but on the pillow calmly lay:
The heart that beat for me by night, by day,
Wavered—then softly stopped.