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Her eyes are homes of silent prayer,    Nor other thought her mind admits    But, he was dead, and there he sits, And he that brought him back is there.

Then one deep love doth supersede    All other, when her ardent gaze    Roves from the living brother's face, And rests upon the Life indeed.

All subtle thought, all curious fears,    Borne down by gladness so complete,    She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet With costly spikenard and with tears.

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers,    Whose loves in higher love endure;    What souls possess themselves so pure, Or is there blessedness like theirs?

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

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