What comes now? The earth awaits

Now from the broken tower, what solemn bell still tolls, Mourning what piteous death? Answer, O saddened souls! Who mourn the death of beauty and the death of grace.

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

Imageries of dreams reveal a gracious age

Ill times may be; she hath no thought of time: She reigns beside the waters yet in pride. Rude voices cry: but in her ears the chime Of full, sad bells brings back her old springtide. Like to a queen in pride of place, she wears The …

The winds are sometimes sad to me, The starry spaces, full of fear; Mine is the sorrow on the sea, And mine the sigh of places drear. Some players upon plaintive strings Publish their wistfulness abroad; I have not spoken of these things,

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