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XXXI.
BEAUTY was with me once, but now, grown old,
I cannot hear nor see her: thus a King
In the high turret kept him from the cold
Over the fire, with his magic ring,
Which, as he wrought, made pictures come and go
Of men and times, past, present, and to be;
Now like a smoke, now flame-like, now a glow,
Now dead, now bright, but always fantasy,
While, on the stair without, a faithful slave
Stabbed to the death, crawled bleeding, whispering, "Sir,
They come to kill you, fly: I come to save,
O you great gods, for pity let him hear."
Then, with his last strength tapped, and muttered, "Sire."
While the King smiled and drowsed above the fire.
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