Thomas Hardy — The marble tablet

There it stands, though alas, what a little of her        &nbsp Shows in its cold white look! Not her glance, glide, or smile; not a tittle of her        &nbsp Voice like the purl of a brook;        &nbsp Not her thoughts, that you read like a book. It may stand for her once in November        &nbsp When first she breathed, witless of all; Or in heavy years she would remember        &nbsp When circumstance held her in thrall;        &nbsp Or at last, when she answered her call! Nothing more. The still marble, date-graven,        &nbsp Gives all that it can, tersely lined; That one has at length found the haven        &nbsp Which every one other will find;        &nbsp With silence on what shone behind.