Grief hath pacified her face; Even hope might share so still a place; Yet, on the silence of her heart, Haply, if a strange footfall start, Or a chance word of ecstasy Cry through dim cloistered memory, Into her eyes her soul will steal To gaze into the irrevocable — As if death had not power to keep One who has loved her long asleep. Now all things lovely she looks on Seem lovely in oblivion; And all things mute what shall not be Richer than any melody. Her narrow hands, like birds that make A nest for some old instinct`s sake, Have hollowed a refuge for her face — A narrow and a quiet place — Where, far from the world`s light, she may See clearer what is passed away. And only little children know Through what dark gates her smile may go.SourceThe script ran 0.003 seconds.
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