Who even feels death’s creeping chill,
Rose on its knees, resisting still,
And hope of rescue there was none,
Except in Charles, the absent one.
Although the leaves in Fate’s dark book
Turned in the storm, though nature shook,
He stood calm like the bomb-proof wall,
When sacked and burning cities fall,
Like rocks lashed wildly by the wave,
Like Resignation on a grave.