To William Watson

Sombre and rich, the skies; Great glooms, and starry plains. Gently the night wind sighs; Else a vast silence reigns.

The splendid silence clings Around me: and around The saddest of all kings Crowned, and again discrowned.

Comely and calm, he rides Hard by his own Whitehall: Only the night wind glides: No crowds, nor rebels, brawl.

Gone, too, his Court: and yet, The stars his courtiers are: Stars in their stations set; And every wandering star.

Alone he rides, alone, The fair and fatal king: Dark night is all his own, That strange and solemn thing.

Which are more full of fate: The stars; or those sad eyes? Which are more still and great: Those brows; or the dark skies?

Although his whole heart yearn In passionate tragedy: Never was face so stern With sweet austerity.

Vanquished in life, his death By beauty made amends: The passing of his breath Won his defeated ends.

Brief life, and hapless? Nay: Through death, life grew sublime. Speak after sentence? Yea: And to the end of time.

Armoured he rides, his head Bare to the stars of doom: He triumphs now, the dead, Beholding London's gloom.

Our wearier spirit faints, Vexed in the world's employ: His soul was of the saints; And art to him was joy.

King, tried in fires of woe! Men hunger for thy grace: And through the night I go, Loving thy mournful face.

Yet, when the city sleeps; When all the cries are still: The stars and heavenly deeps Work out a perfect will.