The Marble Tablet

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.

        St. Juliot: September 8, 1916.