Sonnets 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!