The Comfort of the Trees

       The Dying President: September, 1901

Gentle and generous, brave-hearted, kind,
     And full of love and trust was he, our chief;
     He never harmed a soul! Oh, dull and blind
     And cruel, the hand that smote, beyond belief!
Strike him? It could not be! Soon should we find
     ’T was but a torturing dream—our sudden grief!—
     Then sobs and wailings down the northern wind
     Like the wild voice of shipwreck from a reef!

By false hope lulled (his courage gave us hope!)
     By day, by night we watched,—until unfurled
     At last the word of fate!—Our memories
Cherish one tender thought in their sad scope:
     He, looking from the window on this world,
     Found comfort in the moving green of trees.

SEPTEMBER 16, 1901.