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.

I leave thy praises unexpress'd
      In verse that brings myself relief,
      And by the measure of my grief
I leave thy greatness to be guess'd;

What practice howsoe'er expert
      In fitting aptest words to things,
      Or voice the richest-toned that sings,
Hath power to give thee as thou wert?

I care not in these fading days
      To raise a cry that lasts not long,
      And round thee with the breeze of song
To stir a little dust of praise.

Thy leaf has perish'd in the green,
      And, while we breathe beneath the sun,
      The world which credits what is done
Is cold to all that might have been.

So here shall silence guard thy fame;
      But somewhere, out of human view,
      Whate'er thy hands are set to do
Is wrought with tumult of acclaim.

Last modified 14 February 2010