His throne in splendor, whom, vanished now, the face
Of heaven remembers yet!
Emptiness—emptiness—the skies are bare,
And the stark earth no less
Grows vacant as a memory: everywhere
Sleeps the cold loveliness.
Old is the earth, too old; her voice is shrill
Against the end of things—
To the inevitable her bitter will
Grows humbler as she sings.