English, Department of


Date of this Version


Document Type



The George Eliot Review 32 (2001)


Published by The George Eliot Review Online https://GeorgeEliotReview.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.