 | The Autumn Garden |  |
74
For a Tomb at Canterbury
E. W. B., October 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.
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.
Faint, from the upland path he trod,
Sighing, he sank through veils of air,—
Then round him felt the Arms of God.
| The Autumn Garden | |