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Poem	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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