In her cold white hand.

Even these words, so longed for,
Do not stir her rest;
Well--I should not murmur,
For God judges best.

She needs no more pity,--
But I mourn his fate,
When he hears his letter
Came a day too late.




VERSE: THE REQUITAL


Loud roared the Tempest,
Fast fell the sleet;
A little Child Angel
Passed down the street,
With trailing pinions,
And weary feet.

The moon was hidden;
No stars were bright;
So she could not shelter
In heaven that night,
For the Angels' ladders