At Noon
Far in the night, and yet no rest for him! The pillow next his own
The wife’s sweet face in slumber pressed—yet he awake—alone!
alone!
In vain he courted sleep;—one thought would ever in his heart
arise,—
The harsh words that at noon had brought the teardrops to her eyes.
Slowly on lifted arm he raised and listened. All was still as death;
He touched her forehead as he gazed, and listened yet, with bated
breath:
Still silently, as though he prayed, his lips moved lightly as she
slept—
For God was with him, and he laid his face with hers and wept.
