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The Widow

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Written by Walter de la Mare

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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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