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AFTER the winding of the horn
Through the great silence shivers not a tone,
As in dead towns where cats dream on the worn
Thresholds of stone.


Under the night's black canopy
The chargers of the monarchs trampled down,
Through gold and din riding in radiant panoply,
The blood of roses carpeting the town.


The hours of joy have passed,
And roses on the roadways cast,
And in our tired spirits is forlorn
Silence after the winding of the horn.