The Passing

A time will come when we again shall rail--
Not yet, not yet. The flood comes on apace,
That deep dividing river, and her face
Grows dimmer as it widens--pale, so pale.

Have we not railed and laughed these many days,
Mummers before the lights? Dear fool, your hand
Upon your lips--Oh let us once be grand,
Grand as we were when treading royal ways.

Lo, there she moves beyond the river. Gone--
Gone is the sun-lo, starlight in her eyes.
See, how she standeth silent and alone--

Oh, hush! let us not vex her with our cries.
Proud as of old, unto my throne I go. . . .
Cordelia’s gone...... Hush, draw the curtain--so.