The Kings are passing deathward in the dark
   Of days that had been splendid where they went;
Their crowns are captive and their courts are stark
   Of purples that are ruinous, now, and rent.
For all that they have seen disastrous things:
   The shattered pomp, the split and shaken throne,
They cannot quite forget the way of Kings:
   Gravely they pass, majestic and alone.

With thunder on their brows, their faces set
   Toward the eternal night of restless shapes,
They walk in awful splendor, regal yet,
   Wearing their crimes like rich and kingly capes . . .
Curse them or taunt, they will not hear or see;
   The Kings are passing deathward: let them be.