John Moultrie (1799–1874)

THE HAND of Death lay heavy on her eyes,—

For weeks and weeks her vision had not borne

To meet the tenderest light of eve or morn,

To see the crescent moonbeam set or rise,

Or palest twilight creep across the skies;

She lay in darkness, seemingly forlorn,

With sharp and ceaseless anguish rack’d and torn,

Yet calm with that one peace which never dies.

Closed was, for her, the gate of visual sense,

This world and all its beauty lost in night;

But the pure soul was all ablaze with light,

And through that gloom she saw, with gaze intense,

Celestial glories, hid from fleshly sight,

And heard angelic voices call her hence.