THE MARBLE TABLET

There it stands, though alas, what a little of her

Shows in its cold white look!

Not her glance, glide, or smile; not a tittle of her

Voice like the purl of a brook;

Not her thoughts, that you read like a book.

It may stand for her once in November

When first she breathed, witless of all;

Or in heavy years she would remember

When circumstance held her in thrall;

Or at last, when she answered her call!

Nothing more. The still marble, date-graven,

Gives all that it can, tersely lined;

That one has at length found the haven

Which every one other will find;

With silence on what shone behind.