Poetry Archives

As sometimes in a dead man’s face,
  To those that watch it more and more,
  A likeness, hardly seen before,
Comes out—to some one of his race:

So, dearest, now thy brows are cold,
  I see thee what thou art, and know
  Thy likeness to the wise below,
Thy kindred with the great of old.

But there is more than I can see,
  And what I see I leave unsaid,
  Nor speak it, knowing Death has made
His darkness beautiful with thee.