The Widow

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