Canto LXXII

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.