He praised in lines that everybody knew
Her hands, her brow, her pale and lovely face;
He dared not say (he was Victorian too)
How he was haunted by her body's grace;
He linked her name with magic names and old,
Helen, Iseult, Queen Meave and Guinevere,
He swore that years should never make her cold,
Nor death appall her merry heart with fear.
But when I see her bending on her stick,
So careful where she steps — I know at last,
That earth is old and April but a trick,
That Troy is gone and Tyre and Sidon have passed!
I think I saw their high towers falling down,
In an old lady's bleak, impatient frown.