Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon;
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone
Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune.
At last the thread was snapped—her head was bowed,
Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene—
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud,
While Death and Winter closed the Autumn scene.