A lonely wind, all songless and forlorn;
For I have found the empty heart of things,
The secret sorrow of the summer rose,
And all the sadness of the April green;
I know that every happy stream that springs
Into a sea of bitter memories flows;
I know the curse that God has set on kings--
The solitary splendour and the crown
Of desolation, and the prisoning state;
The heart that yearns beneath the robe of gold,