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.
  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.
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