Ah, what avails the sceptred race!
Ah, what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and sighs...
Ah, what avails the sceptred race! Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes |
Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak |
Children are what the mothers are. His startled eyes with wonder see |
Where art thou gone, light-ankled Youth? Then some one seemed to whisper near |
Ah what avails the sceptred race, |
In his own image the Creator made, |
I Strove with none, for none was worth my strife; |
When hath wind or rain |
From “Gebir,” Book I. |
THE Wisest of the wise I never sat among... |