heart of the Poet-Priest was grateful. From a balcony where he would
sit, breathing in the cool air and resting his soul in the unbroken
silence, he looked across the courtyard shaded by beautiful trees,
filled with flowers and trellised vines, his heart revelling in the
riot of color, the wilderness of greenery, all bathed in golden floods
of sunshine and canopied with an ever-changing and ever-glorious
stretch of azure sky.

Father Ryan was never again to go out from this peaceful harbor into
the tumultuous billows of world-life. He had been there but a short
time when his physician told him that he must prepare for death.
"Why," he said, "I did that long years ago." The time of rest for
which he had prayed in years gone by was near at hand.

My feet are wearied and my hands are tired,
My soul oppressed--
And I desire, what I have long desired--
Rest--only rest.

* * * * *

The burden of my days is hard to bear,
But God knows best;
And I have prayed--but vain has been my prayer
For rest--sweet rest.

In his last days his mind was filled with reminiscences of the war and
he would arouse the monastery and tell the priests and brothers, "Go
out into the city and tell the people that trouble is at hand. War is
coming with pestilence and famine and they must prepare to meet the