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.
-Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H., Canto LXXIV