Classic Poem

These four gray walls are but the bodily shell,
Whereof my lady of the brave blue eyes
Is the immortal soul. All sweet replies
And viewless records of a touch known well
That like the tone within a golden bell
Pervade them with a gentle atmosphere,
These things are just herself — she being here —
The breath that makes the rose-tree sweet to smell.
Through sunshine, and gray shadow, and through gloom,
With mirth and gracious courage for her ways,
And goodness ever forth, but never spent,
She passes with light hands from room to room,
And beauty grows before her, and the days
Are full, and quietly rounded, and content.