| Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream? |
| For these red lips, with all their mournful pride, |
| Mournful
that no new wonder may betide, |
| Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam, |
| And Usna’s children died. |
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| We and the labouring world are passing by: |
| Amid men’s souls, that waver and give place |
| Like the pale
waters in their wintry race, |
| Under the passing stars, foam of the sky, |
| Lives on this lonely face. |
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| Bow
down, archangels, in your dim abode: |
| Before you were, or any hearts to beat, |
| Weary and kind one lingered
by His seat; |
| He made the world to be a grassy road |
| Before her wandering feet. |