Page:Dreams and Images.djvu/138

 The splendid silence clings Around me: and around The saddest of all kings Crowned, and again discrowned.

Comely and calm, he rides Hard by his own Whitehall: Only the night wind glides: No crowds, nor rebels, brawl.

Gone, too, his Court: and yet, The stars his courtiers are; Stars in their stations set; And every wandering star.

Alone he rides, alone, The fair and fatal king: Dark night is all his own, That strange and solemn thing.

Which are more full of fate: The stars; or those sad eyes? Which are more still and great: Those brows; or the dark skies?

Although his whole heart yearn In passionate tragedy: Never was face so stern With sweet austerity.

Vanquished in life, his death By beauty made amends: The passing of his breath Won his defeated ends.