The Tomb of Ilaria Giunigi

by Edith Wharton

　　That death would fain disown thee, grief made wise

　　With prophecy thy husband's widowed eyes,

　　And bade him call the master's art to rear

　　Thy perfect image on the sculptured bier,

　　With dreaming lids, hands laid in peaceful guise

　　Beneath the breast that seems to fall and rise,

　　And lips that at love's call should answer "Here!"

　　First-born of the Renascence, when thy soul

　　Cast the sweet robing of the flesh aside,

　　Into these lovelier marble limbs it stole,

　　Regenerate in art's sunrise clear and wide,

　　As saints who, having kept faith's raiment whole,

　　Change it above for garments glorified.