Or quick-drawn breath a word should fall unheard
From Him, the wonderful, the Prince of Peace.
“Blessed”—the widow, shuddering, draws more close
Her sombre draperies, and bows her head
In agony of dumb and hopeless grief.
—“Are they that mourn!” A dry, half-stifled sob
Bursts from a gray-haired man; ’twas yesterday
They buried all most dear to him on earth,
And sun and stars were blotted out. Hot tears
Fall thickly on his knotted, sunburnt hands,