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Walter de la Mare - The Widow
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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.
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