 | The poetical works of Henry Alford |  |
XXIV. THE SAME.
Long we have mourned; but now the worst hath come,We cannot weep, nor feel as we have felt
For aught in sorrow: thou art all too calm
And solemn-silent on thy bed of death;
And that white sunken face hath never a sign
To make of aught disquieted within.
'Tis a most awful thing, that face of thine
Seared with the traces which the soul hath left,—
The settlement from all the stir of life,
The fixed conclusion of all modes of thought,
The final impress of all joys and cares:—
We dare not whisper when we look on thee;
We scarce can breathe our breath when thou art by;
Dread image of the majesty of man!
| The poetical works of Henry Alford | |