“Has some saint gone up to heaven?” “Yes,” they answered, weeping sore;
“For the Organ-builder’s saintly wife our eyes shall see no more;
“And because her days were given to the service of God’s poor,
From His church we mean to bury her. See! yonder is the door.”
No one knew him; no one wondered when he cried out, white with pain;
No one questioned when, with pallid lips, he poured his tears like rain.
“’Tis some one whom she has comforted, who mourns with us,” they said,
As he made his way unchallenged, and bore the coffin’s head;
Bore it through the open portal, bore it up the echoing aisle,
Let it down before the altar, where the lights burned clear the while;