So there are no more words and all is ended;
The timbrel stilled, the clarion laid away;
And Love with streaming hair goes unattended
Back to the loneliness of yesterday. . . .
Gray-eyed, and with dull tread, and with no moan,
Proud, unreluctant, marvelously pale,
You step into your solitude of stone
Like Guinevere moving slowly to her veil.

So there are no more words and all is over:
The bronzed battalions of the twilight wheel
Along the sky's concave. ... I was your lover;
Went glowing; wind and fire at my heel. . . .
All's over, ended; there are no more words —
A gust of wet leaves under the huddling birds.