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.