Its horror and its beauty are divine.
Upon its lips and eyelids seems to lie,
Loveliness like a shadow, from which shine,
Fiery and lurid, struggling underneath,
The agonies of anguish and of death.
"Yet it is less the horror than the grace,
Which turns the gazer's spirit into stone:
Whereon the lineaments of that dead face
Are graven, till the characters be grown
Into itself, and thought no more can trace;