The clouds were gathering thick and fast, and burst in a waterspout of utter ruin.
Jane's courage was calm and hopeful as that of Socrates in the dialogues she had loved.
"...

your soul was pure and true, The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire and dew." quoted Winona enthusiastically.

Browning always stirred her blood, and threw her into poetical channels.

She cast about in her mind for any other appropriate verses.
"Ah, broken is the golden bowl, the spirit gone for ever, Let the bell toll--a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river.
Come, let the burial rite be read--the funeral song be sung, An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young, A dirge for her, the doubly dead, in that she died so young." "So they finished their foul deed, and laid her to rest," wrote Winona, "the earthly part, that is, which perishes, for the true part of her they could not touch.

Farewell, sweet innocent soul, of whom the world was not worthy.