The bars of death across her fair, soft breast
Are locked with rivets older than the sun,
And more enduring. She is laid to rest .
Thus doth the legend on the marble run.
But, oh, all is unknown, all is unguessed:
Shut from this life she is, but hath not done
With life's sad mystery; still her heart is knowing
When love doth wake the earth; still doth the tear
Steal from her tranced lids — she feels the flowing
Of yon deep tawny river, she can hear
The roots of summer flowers in silence growing.
The passing step doth reach her, and her ear
Doth catch the murmurs of the marshes wide.
She guesses when the rose is blooming near.
" Alas, " she saith, " how sweet the world outside. "