THE word is said, and I no more shall know Aught of the changing story of her days, Nor any treasure that her lips bestow. And I, who loving her was wont to praise All things in love, now reft of music go With silent step down unfrequented ways. My soul is like a lonely market-place, Where late were laughing folk and shining steeds And many things of comeliness and grace; And now between the stones are twisting weeds, No sound there is, nor any friendly face, Save for a bedesman telling o'er his beads. |