Over the Capulet and Montague roofs,
Washed by the rain, unsettled by thunder,
The gentle eye of blue
Looks on the rubble of unfriendly keeps,
On garden gates flung down in heaps,
And drops a star from its height.
The cypresses say it falls for Juliet,
And Romeo—that tear from the planet
Drips into graves below;
But people say—learnedly, gravely—
That these are stones, not tears at all,
And no one waits for them.