Halls grew darker

 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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