An Arundel Tomb

Side by side, their faces blurred,

The earl and countess lie in stone,

Their properĀ habitsĀ vaguely shown

As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,

And that faint hint of the absurdā€”

The little dogs under their feet.

Such plainness of theĀ pre-baroque

Hardly involves the eye, until

It meets his left-handĀ gauntlet, still

Clasped empty in the other; and

One sees, with a sharp tender shock,

His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.

They would not think to lie so long.

Such faithfulness inĀ effigy

Was just a detail friends would see:

A sculptorā€™s sweet commissioned grace

Thrown off in helping to prolong

The Latin names around the base.

They would not guess how early in

TheirĀ supineĀ stationary voyage

The air would change to soundless damage,

Turn the old tenantry away;

How soon succeeding eyes begin

To look, not read. Rigidly they

Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths

Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light

Each summer thronged the glass. A bright

Litter of birdcalls strewed the same

Bone-riddled ground. And up the paths

The endless altered people came,

Washing at their identity.

Now, helpless in the hollow of

An unarmorial age, a trough

Of smoke in slow suspendedĀ skeins

Above their scrap of history,

Only anĀ attitude remains:

Time has transfigured them into

Untruth. The stone fidelity

They hardly meant has come to be

Their finalĀ blazon, and to prove

Our almost-instinct almost true:

What will survive of us is love.