Classic Poem

Somewhat no doubt at every death is felt
Of self-reproach—the watchers deem they slept
Or watched not keenly, when the blow was dealt,
When from its scabbard death's sword leapt.

God help us—though we love, we are but frail:
When we would watch, we sleep.
May God the unsleeping Watcher keep
O'er all the loving watch that cannot fail!