The Image
Dim the light in your faces: be passionless in the room.
Snuffed are the tapers, and bitterly hang on the flowerless air:
See: and this is the Image of her they will lay in the tomb,
Clear, and waxen, and cooled in the mass of her hair.
Quiet the tears in your voices: feel lightly, finger, for finger
In love: then see how like is the Image, but lifelessly fashioned
And sightless, calm, unloving ... Oh who is the Artist? Oh linger
And ponder whither has flitted his Sitter Impassioned.