Hail to thee, everlasting pain!

The gray-eyed king died yesterday.

Scarlet and close was the autumn eve,

My husband, returning, said calmly to me:

“They brought him back from the hunt, you know,

They found his body near the old oak.

Pity the queen. So young! …

Overnight her hair has turned gray.”

Then he found his pipe on the hearth

And left, as he did every night, for work.

I will wake my little daughter now,

And look into her eyes of gray.

And outside the window the poplars whisper:

“Your king is no more on this earth …”