James B. Maynard

1888

His daily, nightly task is o'er --
He leans above his desk no more.

His pencil and his pen say not
One further word of gracious thought.

All silent is his _voice_, yet clear
For all a grateful world to hear;

He poured abroad his human love
In opulence unmeasured of --

While, in return, his meek demand, --
The warm clasp of a neighbor-hand

In recognition of the true
World's duty that he lived to do.

So was he kin of yours and mine --
So, even by the hallowed sign

Of silence which he listens to,
He hears our tears as falls the dew.

End of title

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