Niobe
How
like
the
sky
she
bends
above
her
child,
One
with
the
great
horizon
of
her
pain!
No
sob
from
our
low
seas
where
woe
runs
wild,
No
weeping
cloud,
no
momentary
rain,
Can
mar
the
heaven-high
visage
of
her
grief,
That
frozen
anguish,
proud,
majestic,
dumb.
She
stoops
in
pity
above
the
labouring
earth,
Knowing
how
fond,
how
brief
Is
all
its
hope,
past,
present,
and
to
come,
She
stoops
in
pity,
and
yearns
to
assuage
its
dearth.
Through
that
fair
face
the
whole
dark
universe
Speaks,
as
a
thorn-tree
speaks
thro’
one
white
flower;
And
all
those
wrenched
Promethean
souls
that
curse
The
gods,
but
cannot
die
before
their
hour,
Find
utterance
in
her
beauty.
That
fair
head
Bows
over
all
earth’s
graves.
It
was
her
cry
Men
heard
in
Rama
when
the
twisted
ways
With
children’s
blood
ran
red.
Her
silence
towers
to
Silences
on
high;
And,
in
her
face,
the
whole
earth’s
anguish
prays.
It
is
the
pity,
the
pity
of
human
love
That
strains
her
face,
upturned
to
meet
the
doom,
And
her
deep
bosom,
like
a
snow-white
dove
Frozen
upon
its
nest,
ne’er
to
resume
Its
happy
breathing
o’er
the
golden
brace
That
she
must
shield
till
death.
Death,
death
alone
Can
break
the
anguished
horror
of
that
spell.
The
sorrow
on
her
face
Is
sealed:
the
living
flesh
is
turned
to
stone;
She
knows
all,
all,
that
Life
and
Time
can
tell.
Ah,
yet,
her
woman’s
love,
so
vast,
so
tender,
Her
woman’s
body,
hurt
by
every
dart,
Braving
the
thunder,
still,
still
hide
the
slender
Soft
frightened
child
beneath
her
mighty
heart.
She
is
all
one
mute
immortal
cry,
one
brief
Infinite
pang
of
such
victorious
pain
That
she
transcends
the
heavens
and
bows
them
down!
The
majesty
of
grief
Is
hers,
and
her
dominion
must
remain
Eternal.
Grief
alone
can
wear
that
crown.