The throne, whereon the gods sate crowned at noon
With ruby rays and liquid amethyst,
Is but a vapour, dim and grey, a streak
Of hollow rain that freezes in its fall,
A dull, cold shape that settles on the peak,
Icy and stifling as a dead man’s pall.
The world’s old faith is fairest in its death,
For death is fairer oftentimes than life;
No vulgar passion quivers in the breath:
The dead forget their weariness and strife.