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.