A Minor Chord

THERE are who fall asleep ! Their eyelids fold,
As fold the flowers their leaves at eventide ;
Death kisses them as does a youth his bride ;
They sink to silence as a story told.
We near her stood---we took her wasted hand
In ours ; we whispered, "She is gone" ; then thought
How gently God had through the river brought
Our dear child-angel to the angel land.

Our lips touched hers : our fingers smoothed her hair :
We wove a wreath of lilies for her breast ;
We seemed to share her calm mysterious rest,
Then wakened to our loss and our despair.
O Life ! O Death ! O hearts that ache and bleed  !
O Grace ! that meets life's bitterest, sorest need !

Written by
John Kilbourn



John Kilbourn was born in Walsall in 1838. He became a fluent writer and speaker and also a distinguished journalist.