Dim the light in your faces: be passionless in the room.

Snuffed are the tapers, and bitterly hang on the flowerless air:

See: and this is the Image of her they will lay in the tomb,

Clear, and waxen, and cooled in the mass of her hair.

Quiet the tears in your voices: feel lightly, finger, for finger

In love: then see how like is the Image, but lifelessly fashioned

And sightless, calm, unloving ... Oh who is the Artist? Oh linger

And ponder whither has flitted his Sitter Impassioned.