You have fed me upon thistles; I was driven by the crowd;
But my faith in what I am, my conceit, you cannot alter;
I was proud in pomp and purple, as a clown I leave you proud!
A greater pride than sits upon a throne for mere adorning,
A fiercer strength than in the gods of wood that cannot bow;
I tore my purple into rags and knelt to bear your scorning,
And I am rebel leader to a band of beggars now.
In the twilight of my love I stand and strew the bitter ashes;
They are blown into my eyes again, the fires that shone for you;
In the blushing of the sunset their ghostly fervour flashes