While she spake my heart did leap. Waking is man's life, and sleep-- What is sleep?--a little death Coming after, and methought Life is mine and death is nought Till it come,--so day is mine I will risk the sleep to shine In the waking. And she saith, In a soft voice clear and low, 'Give thy plumèd cap also For a token.' 'Didst thou give?' Quoth the queen; and 'As I live He makes answer 'none can tell. I did will my sleep to sell, And in token held to her That she askèd. And it fell To the grass. I saw no stir In her hand or in her face, And no going; but the place Only for an evening mist Was made empty. There it lay, That same plumèd cap, alway On the grasses--but I wist Well, it must be let to lie, And I left it. Now the tale Ends, th' events do testify Of her truth. The days go by Better and better; nought doth ail In the land, right happy and hale Dwell the seely folk; but sleep Brings a reckoning; then forth creep Dreaded creatures, worms of might. Crested with my plumèd cap Loll about my neck all night, Bite me in the side, and lap My heart's blood. Then oft the weird Drives me, where amazed, afeard, I do safe on a river strand Mark one sinking hard at hand While fierce sleuth-hounds that me track Fly upon me, bear me back, Fling me away, and he for lack Of man's aid in piteous wise Goeth under, drowns and dies. XII. 'O sweet wife, I suffer sore-- O methinks aye more and more Dull my day, my courage numb, Shadows from the night to come. But no counsel, hope, nor aid Is to give; a crown being made Power and rule, yea all good things Yet to hang on this same weird I must dree it, ever that brings Chastening from the white-witch feared. O that dreams mote me forsake, Would that man could alway wake.' XIII. Now good sooth doth counsel fail, Ah this queen is pale, so pale. 'Love,' she sigheth, 'thou didst not well Listening to the white-witch fell, Leaving her doth thee advance Thy plumèd cap of maintenance.' XIV. 'She is white, as white snow flake,' Quoth the king; 'a man shall make Bargains with her and not sin.' 'Ay,' she saith, 'but an he win, Let him look the right be done Else the rue shall be his own. XV. No more words. The stars are bright, For the feast high halls be dight Late he coucheth. Night--'t is night. _The dead king lying in state in the Minster holy._ Fifty candles burn at his head and burn at his feet, A crown and royal apparel upon him lorn and lowly, And the cold hands stiff as horn by their cold palms meet. Two days dead. Is he dead? Nay, nay--but is he living? The weary monks have ended their chantings manifold, The great door swings behind them, night winds entrance giving, The candles flare and drip on him, warm and he so cold. Neither to move nor to moan, though sunk and though swallow'd In earth he shall soon be trodden hard and no more seen. Soft you the door again! Was it a footstep followed, Falter'd, and yet drew near him?--Malva, Malva the queen!