Sonnet Xxiii. The Death—chamber.

Still as a moonlight ruin is thy form. Or meekness of carved marble, that hath prayed For ages on a tomb; serenely laid As some fair vessel that hath braved the storm And past into her heaven, when the noise That cheered her home hath all to silence died, Her crew have shoreward parted, and no voice Troubles her sleeping image in the tide. Sister and saint, thou art a closed book, Whose holy printing none may yet reveal; A few days thou art granted us to look On thy clasped binding, till that One unseal, The Lamb, alone found worthy, and above Thou teach sweet lessons to the kings of love.