E. W. B., O CTOBER 11, 1896

No pain that mars the trembling brow,
No flutterings of the soul were his;
Death, shaken softly from its bough,
Dropt downward, and its touch a kiss.

Clasped in a cloud of secret prayer,
Faint, from the upland path he trod,
Sighing, he sank through veils of air, —
Then round him felt the Arms of God.