From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 29, 1912.
By Wilbur D. Nesbit.
 

 In a throbbing cadence,
   Through the twilight dim,
 In a crooning murmur,
   Comes an olden hymn.
 Ringing, rising, falling,
   Soft and low and sweet,
 While the mellow echoes
   Whispering, repeat.
 
 Organ-tones and voices—
   Perfectly they blend,
 Till we fall to hoping
   That they will not end—
 That the lulling measures
   May drift on and on,
 Till they greet the rapture
   Of the glowing dawn.
 
 Rich and low and tender,
   On the air of night,
 Wafting with it incense,
   Bringing us delight,
 Comes the wordless music
   From the far away,
 Lending newer glory
   To the dying day.
 
 Thus may all the singing
   Echo to the throne,
 Like this hymn at twilight,
   Into beauty grown—
 Like this mellow music,
   Perfect and complete,
 Ringing, rising, falling,
   Soft and low and sweet.