| Although crowds gathered once if she but showed her face, |
| And even old men’s eyes grew dim, this hand alone, |
| Like some last courtier at a gypsy camping-place |
| Babbling of fallen majesty, records what’s gone. |
| The lineaments, a heart that laughter has made sweet, |
| These, these remain, but I record what’s gone. A crowd |
| Will gather, and not know it walks the very street |
| Whereon a thing once walked that seemed a burning cloud. |