Above, she felt assured, though human help
And pity wholly failed, that somewhere, sometime,
There was plenteous rest.        And yet she thanked
And praised the Power that good and evil gave,
For one brief cup of pleasure, if no more--
Her pleasure in her darling boy.  "Take him,
O Lord, whatever portion mine."        The tension loosed,
The stricken widow turned, yet ere she turned
She scanned the northern shore of brilliant night,
And, lo, a mountain mass of tempest clouds
Lined up for battle with the sleeping south.
The woman, fearless, smiled as if in kinship
With the coming storm.        But having struggled, spoken,
Pleaded strong, her transient vigour gone,
She stumbled to the door and entered in.
Beside the bed, she saw the letters written
On the board, as if the sacred writing
On the wall.  She saw the slender lovely hand
Exposéd that wrote them, and she bowed and kissed it,
But she could not weep.        Ere midnight came,
The child awoke, disturbed, and anxious said,
"Oh, mother dear, what is that awful sound?"
"My darling, 'tis the sighing of the wind
Among the pines."  But swifter sped the tempest,
Swifter, and the pines--they bowed their heads
Before the blast and sang.  The cedars high
And oaks together answered back in song,
And louder, louder, as if thunder grand,
The tempest bell of music rang.  The boy
Awoke again, and feebly cried--"Oh, mother,
I'm afraid--what is that dreadful sound?"
"My darling, fear not, 'tis the voice of God--
He leads the choir.  And he remembers you
And me."  "Oh, mother, take me in beside you,
I'm afraid of God, but Jesus"--Here he stopped.
He struggled till he got in part athwart
The cot.  And as his wearied head sank down
He whispered faintly, and there came a broken
Answer, whispering--"Near me, nearer, darling"--
That was all.        The storm, the mother's music.

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