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.

These 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.