With talk of knightly valor and the Holy Sepulchre,
With prattle of the tidings from Jerusalem and Rome;
But sweet Elizabeth, her thoughts were not so far from home.
In spite of rosy radiance, in spite of trumpet calls,
The Sorrow of the People sent its shadow through the walls.
For sitting there beside her lord a sudden silence came
Upon her soul, and all the voices and the horn’s acclaim
Died; and the glowing pageant broke and faded into air,
And only the faces of the poor whose tables are so bare
Pressed in upon her soul that night, pressed in that gala night;