James B. Maynard

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.