Had ceased; the guests were gone. Yet still one voice
Was there—the fountain’s; through those Eastern courts,
Over the broken marble and the grass,
Its low clear music shedding mournfully.
And still another voice! An aged man,
Yet with a dark and fervent eye beneath
His silvery hair, came day by day, and sate
On a white column’s fragment; and drew forth,
From the forsaken walls and dim arcades,
A tone that shook them with its answering thrill,