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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN ELEGY UPON THE DEATH OF DOCTOR DONNE, DEAN OF PAUL'S by THOMAS CAREW FAREWELL TO LOVE; SONNET by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE ROUGE BOUQUET [MARCH 7, 1918] by ALFRED JOYCE KILMER FAIRIES' SONG by THOMAS RANDOLPH THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THERE IS NOTHING STRANGE by ARCHILOCHUS LESBIA'S COMPLAINT AGAINST THYRISIS HIS INCONSTANCY; A SONNET by PHILIP AYRES |