Grief hath pacified her face; <br />Even hope might share so still a place; <br />Yet, on the silence of her heart, <br />Haply, if a strange footfall start, <br />Or a chance word of ecstasy <br />Cry through dim cloistered memory, <br />Into her eyes her soul will steal <br />To gaze into the irrevocable -- <br />As if death had not power to keep <br />One who has loved her long asleep. <br /> <br />Now all things lovely she looks on <br />Seem lovely in oblivion; <br />And all things mute what shall not be <br />Richer than any melody. <br />Her narrow hands, like birds that make <br />A nest for some old instinct's sake, <br />Have hollowed a refuge for her face -- <br />A narrow and a quiet place -- <br />Where, far from the world's light, she may <br />See clearer what is passed away. <br /> <br />And only little children know <br />Through what dark gates her smile may go.<br /><br />Walter de la Mare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-widow/
