By dying bed, in hovel lone,
Whose sorrow she had made her own.
Oft had her voice in prayer been heard,
Sweet as the note of any bird;
Her hand been open in distress;
Her joy to brighten and to bless.
Yet still she answered, when they sought
To know her inmost, earnest thought,
With look as of the seraphim
"I only strive to follow Him."