Lovely she was, if so be Night That slumbers in the sombre shrine.There laid by sculptor Michael's might Unmoving in her marble line.
And she was kind, if it suffice To succour with unheeding face,And give unseen of God's wide eyes; If heartless gold have any grace.
She pondered if the idle stir And gentle lilt of phrases low,As plaintive as a brook, aver That the shy brook doth ponder so.
She prayed, if two so lovely eyes From downward gaze and upward glanceIn flight from earth toward the skies, May earn the name of pray'r perchance.
She might have smiled, if flowers shy That yet within the bud are sealed.Might open when the wind goes by And leaves their longing all unhealed.
She might have wept, if her white hand That coldly o'er her heart is setHad ever human body spanned With dews of heavenly odour wet.
She might have loved, had pride allowed That ever kept its vigil vain,And like a lamp set by a shroud. Shone in her barren heart's domain.
The hue of seeming life she wore; And she has died by life unstirred.The book is fallen to the floor Whereof she never spelt a word.
