Few words are best. He, once King Sigismund, saith few, But makes good diligence and true. Soon with the gold he gather'd so, A little homestead lone and low He buyeth: a field, a copse, with these A melon patch and mulberry trees. And is the man content? Nay, morn Is toilsome, oft is noon forlorn, Though right be done and life be won, Yet hot is weeding in the sun, Yea scythe to wield and axe to swing, Are hard on sinews of a king. XL. And Malva, must she toil? E'en so. Full patiently she takes her part, All, all so new. But her deep heart Forebodes more change than shall be shown Betwixt a settle and a throne. And lost in musing she will go About the winding of her silk, About the skimming her goat's milk, About the kneading of her bread, And water drawn from her well-head. XLI. Then come the long nights dark and still, Then come the leaves and cover the sill, Then come the swift flocks of the stare, Then comes the snow--then comes the heir. XLII. If he be glad, if he be sad, How should one question when the hand Is full, the heart. That life he had, While leisure was aside may stand, Till he shall overtake the task Of every day, then let him ask (If he remember--if he will), 'When I could sit me down and muse, And match my good against mine ill, And weigh advantage dulled by use At nothing, was it better with me?' But Sigismund! It cannot be But that he toil, nor pause, nor sigh, A dreamer on a day gone by The king is come. XLIII. His vassals two Serve with all homage deep and due. He is contented, he doth find Belike the kingdom much to his mind. And when the long months of his long Reign are two years, and like a song From some far sweeter world, a call From the king's mouth for fealty, Buds soon to blossom in language fall, They listen and find not any plea Left, for fine chiding at destiny. XLIV. Sigismund hath ricked the hay, He sitteth at close o' a sultry day Under his mulberry boughs at ease. 'Hey for the world, and the world is wide, The world is mine, and the world is--these Beautiful Malva leans at his side, And the small babbler talks at his knees. XLV. Riseth a waft as of summer air, Floating upon it what moveth there? Faint as the light of stars and wan As snow at night when the moon is gone, It is the white-witch risen once more. XLVI. The white-witch that tempted of yore So utterly doth substance lack, You may breathe her nearer and breathe her back. Soft her eyes, her speech full clear: 'Hail, thou Sigismund my fere, Bargain with me yea or nay. NAY, I go to my true place, And no more thou seest my face. YEA, the good be all thine own, For now will I advance thy day, And yet will leave the night alone. XLVII.