The Queen’s Flight. When the world was young and foolish and fair, And gold was as nothing to golden hair, Two mortals met in a forest glade— A King fell in love with a Beggar-maid. Dried by the wind and drenched with the dew, Her dress was a wonderful washed-out blue ; Her shadowy face was pallid and thin, But gold was the frame that it glimmered in ; Her little bare feet were as hard as stone, But her hands were the hands of a queen on a throne ; Her hair was loose, and her garments were torn, But her heart was gay as a summer morn. Where the sunlight glittered through serried trees, And the bracken rustled about her knees, In the thick wood, far away from the town, She gathered great heaps of the fir-cones brown. She carried them down to the city square, And sold them for bread to the people there, Whilst the idle folk in the market-place Gave alms for the joy of her lovely face. When the world was young and golden and green, The Beggar-maid loved and became a Queen. With never a sigh for the forest shades, Nor a tear for its dim-lit colonnades, She went forth to live amongst men, and reign, Thronèd in vanity, over the vain. In flowing garments of velvet and vair, With a crown of gold on her golden hair, She sat on an ivory throne all day, Till the world grew weary and old and gray ; She sat on her ivory throne and sighed, ‘ The palace is narrow, the world is wide.’ On golden dishes the Feast was spread, But she longed for her wayside crust of bread. Her robes were of velvet, through and through, But she sighed for a gown of washed-out blue. Her heart was sore when she thought of the King : ‘ This life that he praised is a bitter thing. ‘ Alas ! ’ she said, and ‘ I would I were free, For love is but dust and ashes to me.’ She tore off her robe of velvet and vair, And she took the crown from her golden hair ; Then she put on her gown of washed-out blue, And she laughed aloud as she used to do. She went to the King in her rags arrayed : ‘ Ah, the Queen is dead ! ’ said the Beggar-maid. And away she fled in the night alone ; Her little bare feet were as hard as stone, Her shadowy face was shrunken and pale, But her eyes were bright as a fairy tale ; Her dress was faded and ravelled and torn, But her heart was gay as a summer morn. Through the long, soaking grass she hurried down ; She paused when she came to the sleeping town. ‘ Good people,’ she said, ‘ sleep on, take your rest, But you shall not be blest as I am blest ! ‘ Behold, I am free that was once a queen ; I will seek my hut in the forest green. ‘ The walls of the city are narrow and strong, Bringing great peace to the cowardly throng, ‘ When the battle raged in the plain outside And many a patriot fought and died. ‘ The walls of the city the foe withstood— Better I love the green walls of the wood ! ‘ The gates of the palace are carven fair, All gateless stands the blue arch of the air ; ‘ The castle ramparts are stately and high, No fort defends the free dome of the sky ; ‘ The King’s hall is guarded by bolt and bar, Behold, I am free as the wild things are ! ‘ Alas, for all souls bound fast with a chain To the wheel of Fortune—the wheel of pain ! ‘ At the heart of the city the goddess stands, Turning and turning with blood-stained hands. ‘ My soul grows weary, my senses reel At the giddy round of the whirling wheel. ‘ The people rejoice that the wheel flies fast, But all men are ground in the dust at last ! ‘ The voice of the forest is low and sweet, I will tread the dead leaves under my feet ; ‘ Where great boughs shiver and sway in the breeze, The bracken shall rustle about my knees. ‘ Though I eat my bread with labour and tears, Sounds of the forest shall ring in my ears ; ‘ Though I grow old and weary and wise, Sights of the forest shall gladden my eyes. ‘ I have little delight in human words, My heart goes out to the song of the birds ! ‘ I care not at all for sceptre or crown, But I love the smell of the fir-cones brown. ‘ The world grows old and its sorrows increase, But the forest’s soul is the soul of peace ! ’ Her feet were frozen and drenched with the dew, And her dress was soaking through and through, But she laughed aloud in her youth and mirth— Her eyes were bright with the joy of the earth. Then away she wandered over the plain, For the Queen was a Beggar-maid again. Eva Gore-Booth.