XIV.

But other light is in that holy pile, Where, in the house of silence, kings repose; There, through the dim arcade and pillar’d aisle, The funeral torch its deep-red radiance throws. There pall, and canopy, and sacred strain, And all around the stamp of woe may bear; But Grief, to whose full heart those forms are vain, Grief unexpress’d, unsoothed by them--is there. No darker hour hath Fate for him who mourns, Than when the all he loved, as dust, to dust returns.