The room wherein my sainted mother died
I stood alone, and friendless with my grief—
Youth’s crushing grief that hopes not for relief,—
I oped the door, lo, there on bended knee
An orphan dressed in black who looked like me.
Kneeling before the sacred ashes there
He seemed a radiant angel in despair.
His face was bathed in tears, his head was crowned
With thorns, his lute was flung upon the ground,
And o’er his sable garments flowed a tide