The Decay of Vanity

Now it is seven years since you were the Queen
That crowned my King; and six years since your ghost
Left your body cold in my arms as a stone.

The for three years I did heart-brokenly
Embalm your remains; but after that
I let your eye shrink and your body dry,

And had forgotten whether you still hung here,
Or had gone, with all the old junk, out onto the heap
Where scraggy cockerels rake and stab and peer -

Till this man loomed up with your shrunken head.
He, I see, by the majesty in his stride,
Dreams he swept some great queen towards his bed,

Yet skulks by me, swagger as he dare:
This royal trophy, which, in a world of pride,
Makes him your King, makes him my scavenger.