The passing soul yearns forth from wistful eyes,
Whose solemn gaze is more than mortal-wise,
On death; and we who in the earthways fair
Held with her pace for pace—we may not share
That incommunicable, far surprise.

Yet must our grief-bewildered hearts surmise
How, with those slow-drawn, laboring, dying sighs
Time ebbs away, and yields to heavenly care
The passing soul.

Our sorrow wanes from her, our living guise
Is dreamlike. Hushed in God's own hand she lies.
Deep in the valley of the shadow, there
His rod and staff they comfort her. We bear
The bitterness of death, but softly flies
The passing soul.