ROBINSON, Agnes Mary
To think the face we love shall ever die,
And be the indifferent earth, and know us not !
To think that one of us shall live to cry
On one long buried in a distant spot !
O wise Etruscans, faded in the night
Yourselves, with scarce a rose-leaf on your trace ;
You kept the ashes of the dead in sight,
And shaped the vase to seem the vanished face.
But, O my love, my life is such an urn
That tender memories mould with constant touch,
Until the dust and earth of it they turn
To your dear image that I love so much :
A sacred urn, filled with the sacred past,
That shall recall you while the clay shall last.