Turning from Shelley’s sculptured face aside, And pacing thoughtfully the silent aisles Of the gray church that overlooks the smiles Of the glad Avon hastening its tide To join the seaward-winding Stour, I spied Close at my feet a slab among the tiles That paved the minster, where the sculptor’s files Had graven only “Died of Grief,” beside The name of her who slept below. Sad soul! A century has fled since kindly death Cut short that life which nothing knew but grief, And still your fate stirs pity. Yet the whole Wide world is full of graves like yours, for breath Of sorrow kills as oft as frost the leaf.
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