⁠A mark for each scornful eye,
But lifted his gaze to a golden cloud
⁠At anchorage in the sky,
And smiled, as he murmured, half-aloud:
⁠'I shall live when all these die.

'That fair dame's beauty shall fade—
⁠Food for worms to batten upon;
Yon warrior's laurels within the shade
⁠Grow withered, sere, and brown;
The price of that prelate's pride be paid
⁠With an effigy in stone.'

The golden cloud sailed into the West,
⁠Where the sun in blood sank down;
​While the poet passed to his humble nest
⁠By the river-ways of town.
'Tis years since then, and, called from their rest,
The crowd would find that the poet knew best—