The Grey-Eyed King

Hail! Hail to thee, o, immovable pain!
The young grey-eyed king had been yesterday slain.


This autumnal evening was stuffy and red.

My husband, returning, had quietly said,

"He'd left for his hunting; they carried him home;
They'd found him under the old oak's dome.


I pity the queen.
 He, so young, past away!.
.
.

During one night her black hair turned to grey.
"

He found his pipe on a warm fire-place,
And quietly left for his usual race.


Now my daughter will wake up and rise --
Mother will look in her dear grey eyes.
.
.


And poplars by windows rustle as sing,
"Never again will you see your young king.
.
.
"

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