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Poem	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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