SO has she lain for centuries unguessed,
Her waiting face to waiting heaven turned,
While winds have wooed and ardent suns have burned
And stars have died to sentinel her rest.
Only the snow can reach her as she lies,
Far and serene, and with cold finger-tips
Seal soft the lovely quiet of her lips
And lightly veil the shadows of her eyes.
Man has no part--his little, noisy years
Rise to her silence thin and impotent--
There are no echoes in that vast content,
No doubts, no dreams, no laughter and no tears!
