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 gypsy camping-place 
Babbling of fallen majesty, records what's gone.

The lineaments, a heart that laughter has made sweet, 
These, these remain, but I record what's gone. A crowd 
Will gather, and not know it walks the very street 
Whereon a thing once walked that seemed a burning cloud.