 | Poems and Poetical Fragments |  |
38
December 11, 1832.
We cannot weep, nor feel as we have feltFor 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!
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