THE King to the battle, the Queen to her bower. She sits with her maidens and chides the slow hour. There cometh no message all day from the King, And she chides the slow hour for the weight of its wing. She climbs to the turret and scans the far ways; She walks in green alleys, by pleasaunce and maze; By cool-plashing fountain, by arbour and lawn; By the dial so patient from dawn unto dawn. On the terrace a bat flutters wavering by; The sun is gone down off the steps of the sky; And the peacock hath trailed his long splendours away In the lull of the world at the droop of the day. The birds to their perches, the Queen to her bower: Her damsels make music to while the slow hour. But she sits in their midst unregarding and mute: She heeds not the cithern, she hears not the lute. And hark, there are hoofs, -- how they clatter and ring! A message, a message is come from the King. Who bringeth the tidings, at last, and so late? A riderless charger, that neighs at the gate. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ULTIMA THULE: NIGHT by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE VOYAGE by CAROLINE ATHERTON BRIGGS MASON GRISELDA: CHAPTER 5 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT SONG OF THE OPEN LAND by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON PITCHING HAY IN VERMONT by DANIEL LEAVENS CADY A QUESTION: 2; SONNET by DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK AN ELEGIE ON THE DEATH OF DR. PORTER by RICHARD CRASHAW THELMON AND CARMEL; AN IRREGULAR POEM by ANNE BATTEN CRISTALL |