he was going away from me, dwindling
to the shrunk size of a snapshot, going,
going. Till his name was no longer a certain spell
for his face. The last hair on his head
floated out from a book. His scent went from the house.
The will was read. See, he was vanishing
to the small zero held by the gold of my ring.
Then he was gone. Then he was legend, language;
my arm on the arm of the schoolteacher-the shock
of a man's strength under the sleeve of his coat-
along the hedgerows. But I was faithful
for as long as it took. Until he was memory.
So I could stand that evening in the field
in a shawl of fine air, healed, able
to watch the edge of the moon occur to the sky
and a hare thump from a hedge; then notice
A new   lyrical  and uplifting mood is introduced. 
 The likelihood that Mrs Lazarus would have stood in a ‘field’ — suggesting the green rolling hills of England — in an arid Middle-Eastern country, is slim. This is clearly poetic license, but it suggests that Mrs Lazarus has acquired a new inner peace. 

Mrs. Lazarus