LXXIV.
             
        As sometimes in a dead man’s face,
            To those that watch it more and more,
            A likeness, hardly seen before,
        Comes out–to some one of his 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
        His darkness beautiful with thee.