Farewell to the King

The organ piping, cool and lone,
Near the pearl, empty throne
Sings to woe of never morrow.
A jester veiled in notes of sorrow
With painted smile, though there is no king,
Pulls somber at the puppet’s string.
 
No laughter graces that proud hall
While outside there vainly call
A realm of lovers who believe
Hope yet reigns, and will not grieve.

Their candle flames heave and dance:
Golden shreds of living romance;
And flowers round the marble guard posts
Sway as with the breath of ghosts.
 
Frost laden they will not bloom
With a sweet farewell’s perfume.  
And watching, the moon sheds white tears
Upon the play of the courtiers  

In the garden—their final scene
While weeps the Queen,
Whose jewels gleam in ruby lament
Of the monarch’s swift descent  

 And the Underworld yawns  
For the myriad silken dawns
That shall rise without His Grace
Now bare in his crystal case.
With the sword upon his gaunt breast:
Bless this night of Holy Rest.