There it stands, though alas, what a little of her
       &nbsp Shows in its cold white look!
Not her glance, glide, or smile; not a tittle of her
       &nbsp Voice like the purl of a brook;
       &nbsp Not her thoughts, that you read like a book.

It may stand for her once in November
       &nbsp When first she breathed, witless of all;
Or in heavy years she would remember
       &nbsp When circumstance held her in thrall;
       &nbsp Or at last, when she answered her call!

Nothing more. The still marble, date-graven,
       &nbsp Gives all that it can, tersely lined;
That one has at length found the haven
       &nbsp Which every one other will find;
       &nbsp With silence on what shone behind.