McKinley

(Thursday, September 19, 1901.)

Upon our ears are sobs of women breaking;
Grief-stricken prayers bear sky-ward his dear name;
Men sad-eyed bow their heads in silent shame;
A nation’s heart grows weary with dull aching;
A nation s [sic] lips, grand harmonies awaking,
Sing to his rest him to whom angels came,
Whispered a soft command, snuffed out life’s flame.
His unstained soul up-bore on pinions fleet,
Left they the memory of his loveliness,
And all the sunshine of his influence sweet,
Rifting the dark clouds of our sore distress,
Gives us new strength to bend beneath the rod
And draw more near to Thee—to Thee, O God!