These miracles we did; but now, alas!
All measure, and all language I should pass,
Should I tell what a miracle she was.
In The Funeral he returns to the same theme:
Whoever comes to shroud me do not harm
Nor question much
That subtle wreath of hair that crowns my arm;
The mystery, the sign you must not touch,
For ’tis my outward soul.
In this poem, however, he finds less consolation than before in the too miraculous nobleness of their love: