Dead in his chair. The sun’s expiring rays

With crimson glow lights up the rigid face,

And in the unclosed eyes that look afar

A blood-red sunbeam finds a resting place.

Dead! with the pen still clutched in pulseless hand,

“Dear wife,” sole words before his sightless gaze.

One nerveless arm hangs strangely by the chair,

While at his frozen feet a kitten plays.

Dead! Can it be, with children’s shouts without?

So still he sits. How painful is the light,

And deeper glows the crimson on his face,

The sun has set, Goodnight.