Death had unbound
Prometheus.
By noon on that day, the 6th of January, 1919, the whole world
knew of his death, and as the news sank in, the sense of an
unspeakable void was felt everywhere. He was buried on January
8th, on a knoll in the small country graveyard, which he and Mrs.
Roosevelt had long before selected, overlooking Oyster Bay and
the waters of the Sound. His. family and relatives and dear
friends, and a few persons who represented State and Nation, the
Rough Riders, and learned societies, attended the services in the
little church. Just as the coffin was being borne in, the sun
came out and streamed through the stained-glass windows. "The
services were most impressive in their simplicity, in their sense
of intimacy, in the sentiment that filled the hour and the place
of personal loss and of pride of possession of a priceless
memory." The bearers took the coffin through the grove, with its
bare trees and light sifting of snow, to the grave; and as it was
committed, there were many sobs and tears of old and young.
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