Date of this Version
The George Eliot Review 32 (2001)
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.