I'm like some king in whose corrupted veins Flows agèd blood; who rules a land of rains; Who, young in years, is old in all distress; Who flees good counsel to find weariness Among his dogs and playthings, who is stirred Neither by hunting-hound nor hunting-bird; Whose weary face emotion moves no more E'en when his people die before his door. His favourite Jester's most fantastic wile Upon that sick, cruel face can raise no smile; The courtly dames, to whom all kings are good, Can lighten this young skeleton's dull mood No more with shameless toilets. In his gloom Even his lilied bed becomes a tomb. The sage who takes his gold essays in vain To purge away the old corrupted strain, His baths of blood, that in the days of old The Romans used when their hot blood grew cold, Will never warm this dead man's bloodless pains, For green Lethean water fills his veins. THE OWLS Under the overhanging yews, The dark owls sit in solemn state, Like stranger gods; by twos and twos Their red eyes gleam. They meditate. Motionless thus they sit and dream Until that melancholy hour When, with the sun's last fading gleam, The nightly shades assume their power. From their still attitude the wise Will learn with terror to despise All tumult, movement, and unrest; For he who follows every shade, Carries the memory in his breast, Of each unhappy journey made. BIEN LOIN D'ICI Here is the chamber consecrate, Wherein this maiden delicate, And enigmatically sedate, Fans herself while the moments creep, Upon her cushions half-asleep, And hears the fountains plash and weep. Dorothy's chamber undefiled. The winds and waters sing afar Their song of sighing strange and wild To lull to sleep the petted child. From head to foot with subtle care, Slaves have perfumed her delicate skin With odorous oils and benzoin. And flowers faint in a corner there. CONTEMPLATION Thou, O my Grief, be wise and tranquil still, The eve is thine which even now drops down, To carry peace or care to human will, And in a misty veil enfolds the town. While the vile mortals of the multitude, By pleasure, cruel tormentor, goaded on, Gather remorseful blossoms in light mood-- Grief, place thy hand in mine, let us be gone Far from them. Lo, see how the vanished years, In robes outworn lean over heaven's rim; And from the water, smiling through her tears, Remorse arises, and the sun grows dim; And in the east, her long shroud trailing light, List, O my grief, the gentle steps of Night. TO A BROWN BEGGAR-MAID White maiden with the russet hair, Whose garments, through their holes, declare That poverty is part of you, And beauty too.