The kings ride by, their mantles in the wind Blow in the dust of centuries. Who knows Where they have gone, the royal ranks have thinned And in some burning country of the rose, Some land of darkness, have the lifted hooves Of their white chargers paled and so gone by; Where are the domes and where the gilded roofs, And where their signature upon the sky? The purple and the ermine are no more, The crown is fallen and the throne is dust, Yet we remain, and where the kings before Rode in the wind, we ride before the gust, Remembering old Troy and golden Rome And great kings in the twilight charging home. |