Date of this Version
The George Eliot Review 32 (2001) Published by The George Eliot Fellowship, http://georgeeliot.org/
LARGE woman soul, sure of unfading bays,
It little boots o'er thy too early tomb
To puff our little breaths of passing praise -
Dead in the deepest of Midwinter's gloom,
Ere thine own Autumn's mellow fruitage failed!
We mourn a Larger Light, eclipsed too soon
By the all-darkening Shadow; we who hailed
Its rise, its rounding to the plenilune
Of finished force and chastened grace, lament
The passing of a Power.Thou perchance
Bearest it all unstained, as still unspent,
To spheres unclogged by earthy circumstance.
So be it! Not among the tricksy mimes
Who glitter out a glowworm's hour and fade,
Fame sets this large-orbed glory of our times,
Who, whilst good store of lesser lights are laid
In our King's Sepulchre, makes royal ground
Of that green Northern Graveyard's simplest Mound.