The House Of Beauty

She pauseth; and as each great mirror swings (O ruined Helen, O once golden hair) I see OEnone's ashes scattered there. Another, and, behold, the shadowed things Are violated tombs of shrunken kings. And yet another (O, how thou wert fair!), And I see one, black-clad, who prayeth where No sound of sword on cloven helmet rings. Yet, were I Paris, once more should I see Troy's seaward gates for us swung open wide. Or old Nile's glory, were I Anthony. Or, were I Launcelot, the garden-side At Joyous Gard. Surely; for even to me, Where Love hath lived hath Beauty never died.