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