  A crownless king who reigns alone, I live within this ashen land, Where winds rebuild from wandering sand My columns and my crumbled throne. My sway is on the men that were, And wan sweet women, dear and dead; Beside a marble queen, my bed Is made within the sepulchre. In gardens desolate to the sun, Faring alone, I sigh to find The dusty closes, dim and blind, Where winter and the spring are one. My shadowy visage, grey with grief, In sunken waters walled with sand, I see,—where all mine ancient land Lies yellow like an autumn leaf. My silver lutes of subtle string Are rust,—but on the grievous breeze, I hear what sobbing memories. And muted sorrows murmuring! Across the broken monuments, Memorial of the dreams of old, The sunset flings a ghostly gold To mock mine ancient affluence. About the tombs of stone and brass The silver lights of evening flee; And slowly now, and solemnly, I see the pomp of shadows pass. Often, beneath some fervid moon, With splendid spells I vainly strive Dead loves imperial to revive, And speak a heart-remembered rune:— But, ah, the lovely phantoms fail, The faces fade to mist and light, The vermeil lips of my delight Are dim, the eyes are ashen-pale. A crownless king who reigns alone, I live within this ashen land, Where winds rebuild from wandering sand My columns and my crumbled throne. |
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