'Who knocks?' 'I, who was beautiful, Beyond all dreams to restore, I from the roots of the dark thorn am hither, And knock on the door.'

Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour-let no night Seal thy sense in deathly slumber Till to delight Thou hast paid thy utmost blessing.

A face peered. All the grey night In chaos of vacancy shone; Nought but vast sorrow was there- The sweet cheat gone.

But beauty vanishes; beauty passes; However rare-rare it be; And when I crumble, who will remember This lady of the West Country?