Life flows—a distant murmur—like the flood...
More secret and more strange the smile is on her lips again.
No breath may trouble now her eyes' repose
Where haunt the veilèd ghosts of cities dead;
Adown dim corridors with tranquil tread
Singing she passes where an idle fountain idly flows.
Pale at her casement sits she, to await
Till pride and peace shall have an end at last,
Holding her tulip, mirrored in the past,
Forgotten as old galleys in the roads disconsolate.