The tears of youth are even as the dew,
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Up runs the laughing sun and they are dry,
Youth's broken heart breaks but a month or two,
And all the rest is a poetic sigh;
I have watched many a young perfection die,
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Maids in their bloom and songsters with their strings,
But nothing half so sad beneath the sky
As the great dying of great queens and kings.
They dream on all the mighty world they knew,
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Throned still and crowned, while princelings pass them by,
Strutting in brief magnificence of thew,
Scorning the wisdom of that kingly eye;
And some queen's waiting-maid, with honeyed thigh,
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Titters around these poor old withered things—
I have heard nothing with so sad a cry
As the great dying of great queens and kings.
But once I caught a glance the old queen threw
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To her old lord, so soft and sweet and shy,
That seemed to say, "Beloved, they dream it new
This world we have loved and fought in, you and I!"
Thereon the old king drew her to him nigh,
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And—"Lovelier than April!" low he sings;
"You more a king!"—nothing can Time defy
As the great dying of great queens and kings.
Prince, does your wisdom know a sillier lie
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Than all these shallow modern vapourings,
Or any loss to turn the world awry
As the great dying of great queens and kings?