Then feeling not at all. She only nodded,
Nodded, as her son repeated: “Dead—
Dora, she is dead.” And bore her in,
A limp superfluous bundle.
“Oh, my boy!”—
Perceptibly her white lips lived again—
“Beautiful! One thing about her going,
Oh, my boy, was beautiful. She saw—
Or thought she saw—ten angels in the room.
She counted them. But only three had wings.