Thomas Hardy — After the Last Breath

There's no more to be done, or feared, or hoped; None now need watch, speak low, and list, and tire; No irksome crease outsmoothed, no pillow sloped        &nbsp Does she require. Blankly we gaze. We are free to go or stay; Our morrow's anxious plans have missed their aim; Whether we leave to-night or wait till day        &nbsp Counts as the same. The lettered vessels of medicaments Seem asking wherefore we have set them here; Each palliative its silly face presents        &nbsp As useless gear. And yet we feel that something savours well; We note a numb relief withheld before; Our well-beloved is prisoner in the cell        &nbsp Of Time no more. We see by littles now the deft achievement Whereby she has escaped the Wrongers all, In view of which our momentary bereavement        &nbsp Outshapes but small.