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 gipsy camping place
Babbling of fallen majesty, records what’s gone.
The lineaments, the heart that laughter has made sweet,
These, these remain, but I record what’s gone. A crowd
Will gather and not know that through its very street
Once walked a thing that seemed, as it were, a burning cloud.
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