She pauseth; and as each great mirror swings
(O ruined Helen, O once golden hair)
I see OEnone's ashes scattered there.
Another, and, behold, the shadowed things
Are violated tombs of shrunken kings.
And yet another (O, how thou wert fair!),
And I see one, black-clad, who prayeth where
No sound of sword on cloven helmet rings.
Yet, were I Paris, once more should I see
Troy's seaward gates for us swung open wide.
Or old Nile's glory, were I Anthony.
Or, were I Launcelot, the garden-side
At Joyous Gard. Surely; for even to me,
Where Love hath lived hath Beauty never died.