THE UNEXPECTED SUMMONS.
Dead in his chair. The sun’s expiring rays
With crimson glow lights up the rigid face,
And in the unclosed eyes that look afar
A blood-red sunbeam finds a resting place.
Dead! with the pen still clutched in pulseless hand,
“Dear wife,” sole words before his sightless gaze.
One nerveless arm hangs strangely by the chair,