TOWERING above the plain, proud in decay,—
⁠Her tendriled ivies, like a woman's hair,
⁠Veiling her hurt and hiding her despair,—
The monument of a departed day,
The shadow of a glory passed away,
⁠Stands Kenilworth; stripped of her pomp, and bare
⁠Of all that made her so supremely fair
When Power with Love contended for her sway.
In this wide ruin solemn and serene,
Where moved majestical a virgin queen,
⁠The peacock struts, his ominous plumes outspread;
And here, where casting an immortal spell
A sad and girlish presence seems to dwell,
⁠The wild bird nests, and circles overhead.