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What fiery one here set

His throne in splendor, whom, vanished now, the face

Of heaven remembers yet!

Emptiness—emptiness—the skies are bare,

And the stark earth no less

Grows vacant as a memory: everywhere

Sleeps the cold loveliness.

Old is the earth, too old; her voice is shrill

Against the end of things—

To the inevitable her bitter will

Grows humbler as she sings.

Now from my breast the very soul takes flight,

Leaving her chambers bare

Of all save lonely memory and moonlight—

And Song is silent there.

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The baffled dreamer, the defeated Christ

That for your love upon the cross-tree hung—

O take Him to your bosom, give Him rest

Close at the wanton wonder of your breast,

O carnal World, forever well and young!

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When to a cheap and tawdry tune the orchestra cried out,

Frantic, in violent syncopation, and began

Your holy, adorable body in mournful grace to move about

Through the old, devious motions, the device of man—

How suddenly then, silent magnificence, you put to shame