The form of light, the wise and honored head—
Thou bring’st the music of a lyre unstrung!—
Oh cease!—with tears I ask it—they are dead!
. . . . . . . .
While mortal joys depart,
While loved ones lie beneath the grave’s green sod,
May we not fail to hear, with trembling heart,
In thy low tone the “still small voice of God.”