Canto LXXII
As sometimes in a dead man’s face,To those that watch it more and more,A likeness hardly seen beforeComes out—to some one of his race:
So, dearest, now thy brows are cold,I see thee what thou art, and knowThy likeness to the wise below,Thy kindred with the great of old.
But there is more than I can see,And what I see I leave unsaid,Nor speak it, knowing Death has madeHis darkness beautiful with thee.