The Ruin
Gone are the coloured princes, gone echo, gone laughter:
Drips the blank roof: and the moss creeps after.
Dead is the crumbled chimney: all mellowed to rotting
The wall-tints, and the floor-tints, from the spotting
Of the rain, from the wind and slow appetite
Of patient mould: and of the worms that bite
At beauty all their innumerable lives.