Halls grew darker and somehow faded.
Grates of windows drowned in black.
Every knight, every beautiful lady
Knew the tiding: "The Queen's deadly sick.
And the king, very silent and frowned,
Passed the doors, lost of pages and slaves .
Every word, that by chance cast around,
Proved the truth of the closing grave.
By the doors of the silent abode
I was crying, while pressing the brace .
At the end of the passage remote
Someone echoed me, hiding his face.
By the doors of the Beautiful Lady
I was sobbing, attired in blue .
And the stranger of ashen face sadly
Echoed me all my sufferings through.
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