Dark loom the ghauts against the stream and sky;
The smoke doth rise and wind in columns grey;
Red flare the flames of fagots, leaping high,
Then smoulder down, as dies the darkling day.
Now wendeth a procession, mournful, slow,
Sharp-lined athwart the sun that sets in red;
Upon the pyre they lay the Rajah low,
Impassive, mute - this is his final bed.
Swift leap the crimson flames above the pyre,
As shades of India's night are falling fast;
On high they leap - then sinks the fagot fire,
And dieth slow. All things must end at last.