George Eliot Highgate Cemetery

LARGE woman soul, sure of unfading bays, It little boots o\u27er thy too early tomb To puff our little breaths of passing praise - Dead in the deepest of Midwinter\u27s gloom, Ere thine own Autumn\u27s mellow fruitage failed! We mourn a Larger Light, eclipsed too soon By the all-darkening Shadow; we who hailed Its rise, its rounding to the plenilune Of finished force and chastened grace, lament The passing of a Power.Thou perchance Bearest it all unstained, as still unspent, To spheres unclogged by earthy circumstance. So be it! Not among the tricksy mimes Who glitter out a glowworm\u27s hour and fade, Fame sets this large-orbed glory of our times, Who, whilst good store of lesser lights are laid In our King\u27s Sepulchre, makes royal ground Of that green Northern Graveyard\u27s simplest Mound