Sonnet Xxiii. The Death—chamber. Poem by Henry Alford

Still as a moonlight ruin is thy form.
Or meekness of carved marble, that hath prayed
For ages on a tomb; serenely laid
As some fair vessel that hath braved the storm
And past into her heaven, when the noise
That cheered her home hath all to silence died,
Her crew have shoreward parted, and no voice
Troubles her sleeping image in the tide.
Sister and saint, thou art a closed book,
Whose holy printing none may yet reveal;
A few days thou art granted us to look
On thy clasped binding, till that One unseal,
The Lamb, alone found worthy, and above
Thou teach sweet lessons to the kings of love.