Sonnet Xxiv. The Same

Long we have mourned; but now the worst hath come, We cannot weep, nor feel as we have felt For aught in sorrow: thou art all too calm And solemn--silent on thy bed of death; And that white sunken face hath never a sign To make of aught disquieted within. 'Tis a most awful thing, that face of thine Seared with the traces which the soul hath left,-- The settlement from all the stir of life, The fixed conclusion of all modes of thought, The final impress of all joys and cares:-- We dare not whisper when we look on thee; We scarce can breathe our breath when thou art by; Dread image of the majesty of man!