Patient he was, and content to wait,

While God should please, at the heavenly gate.

Beautiful now his face had grown,

But the beauty was something not his own,—

A solemn light from the blessèd land

Within whose border he soon must stand.

Little he said, but his every word

Was saved and treasured by those who heard,

To be a blessing in years to come,

When he should be theirs no more; and some

Who brought their little to help his need,

Went home with their souls enriched indeed!

One autumn morning he sat alone,

Outside his cell; and the warm sun shone

With a friendly light on his silver hair,

Through the branches, smooth and almost bare,

Of the beech-tree, now, like him, grown old.

The night before had been sharp and cold;

And the frost was white on leaf and stem

Wherever the rocks still shaded them,

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