From the recurrent pageantry of Life
          He is banished - loving still the tang of earth
          The sky, the sunlight, and his own dear hearth.
          He has made a sadness here: Sorrow is rife:
          Estranging Silence, like a keen cold knife,
          Divides our ways....He takes the beaten road
          That all must take: and from his high abode
          Looks down serene on earth's poor trivial strife
          Grief has no tongue, The peaks of tragedy
          Are scaled in silence. Sorrow's groping word
          Flounders in ice-locked waters of the soul.
          ....Death's strict and peremptory call is heard;
          The colophon rounds off the finished scroll;
          And cancelled is the brief proud signiory

        Constance Ada Renshaw [1937]