As Sometimes in a Dead One's Face

As sometimes in a dead one's face,
To those that watch it move and more,
A likeness, hardly seen before,
Comes out—to someone of the race.

So, dearest, now thy brows are cold,
I see thee what thou art, and know
Thy likeness to the wise below,
Thy kindred with the great of old.

But there is more than I can see,
And what I see I leave unsaid,
Nor speak it, knowing Death has made
All darkness beautiful with thee.