Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
1806 – 1861

I TELL you, hopeless grief is passionless;

  That only men incredulous of despair,

  Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air

Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access

Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness

  In souls as countries lieth silent-bare

  Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare

Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express

Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death—

  Most like a monumental statue set

In everlasting watch and moveless woe

Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.

  Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:

If it could weep, it could arise and go.


literature, poetry

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