One hand o' the dead king liveth (e'en so him seemeth) On the purple robe, on the ermine that folds his breast Cold, very cold. Yet e'en at that pass esteemeth The king, it were sweet if she kissed the place of its rest. Laid her warm face on his bosom, a fair wife grievèd For the lord and love of her youth, and bewailed him sore; Laid her warm face on the bosom of her bereavèd Soon to go under, never to look on her more. His candles guide her with pomp funereal flaring, Out of the gulfy dark to the bier whereon he lies. Cometh this queen i' the night for grief or for daring, Out o' the dark to the light with large affrighted eyes? The pale queen speaks in the Presence with fear upon her, 'Where is the ring I gave to thee, where is my ring? I vowed--'t was an evil vow--by love, and by honour, Come life or come death to be thine, thou poor dead king.' The pale queen's honour! A low laugh scathing and sereing-- A mumbling as made by the dead in the tombs ye wot. Braveth the dead this queen? 'Hear it, whoso hath hearing, I vowed by my love, cold king, but I loved thee not.' Honour! An echo in aisles and the solemn portals, Low sinketh this queen by the bier with its freight forlorn; Yet kneeling, 'Hear me!' she crieth, 'you just immortals, You saints bear witness I vowed and am not forsworn. I vowed in my youth, fool-king, when the golden fetter Thy love that bound me and bann'd me full weary I wore, But all poor men of thy menai I held them better, All stalwart knights of thy train unto me were more. Twenty years I have lived on earth and two beside thee, Thirty years thou didst live on earth, and two on the throne: Let it suffice there be none of thy rights denied thee, Though I dare thy presence--I--come for my ring alone.' She risen shuddereth, peering, afraid to linger Behold her ring, it shineth! 'Now yield to me, thou dead, For this do I dare the touch of thy stark stiff finger.' The queen hath drawn her ring from his hand, the queen hath fled. 'O woman fearing sore, to whom my man's heart cleavèd, The faith enwrought with love and life hath mocks for its meed'-- The dead king lying in state, of his past bereavèd, Twice dead. Ay, this is death. Now dieth the king indeed. XVI. 'Wake, the seely gnomes do fly, Drenched across yon rainy sky, With the vex'd moon-mother'd elves, And the clouds do weep themselves Into morning. All night long Hath thy weird thee sore opprest; Wake, I have found within my breast Counsel.' Ah, the weird was strong, But the time is told. Release Openeth on him when his eyes Lift them in dull desolate wise, And behold he is at peace. Ay, but silent. Of all done And all suffer'd in the night, Of all ills that do him spite She shall never know that one. Then he heareth accents bland, Seeth the queen's ring on his hand, And he riseth calmed withal. XVII.