By chance my fingers, resting on my face,
Stayed suddenly where in its orbit shone
The lamp of all things beautiful; then on,
Following more heedfully, did softly trace
Each arch and prominence and hollow place
That shall revealed be when all else is gone--
Warmth, colour, roundness--to oblivion,
And nothing left but darkness and disgrace.
Life like a moment passed seemed then to be;
A transient dream this raiment that it wore;
While spelled my hand out its mortality
Made certain all that had seemed doubt before:
Proved--O how vaguely, yet how lucidly!--
How much death does; and yet can do no more.