Enchanted Wood

Through the great glowing forest, Green and dusky gold and ruddy brown, Where sunbeams filter down In showers of vibrant gold ... Through the old, old wood Passes the funeral pomp of the young, dead king. Choristers sing Strange, wailing, shuddering songs ... Old chants, so old, So desolate, drear. Heavy, deep, purple velvet drapes the bier ... Purple ... deep, passionate purple ... A regal pall Over the cold, young limbs, while the gold leaves fall On the velvet pall. On through the old wood moves The great procession; Deep, passionate purple draping the young, dead king; And the choristers sing ... And a small brown hare, Startled, in quivering panic, scurries ahead Leading the way for the king ... The king who is dead.

In a bright green dell Where they can see well, Wait the butcher, the baker, The candlestick maker. “No more bread for he!” Says the baker. “No more meat for he!” Says the butcher. But the candlestick maker slaps his knee. “Not such a bad day this for me! No more meat and no more bread, But candles to burn at his feet and his head. Nor the living nor dead Can’t get on without me! And very very soon they’ll summon us three!” “For the Feast!” grins the butcher Wagging his head. “For the Feast!” says the baker, “They’ll soon need bread!” “Men can’t do without we!” They say, all three. So the butcher, the baker, The candlestick maker, Watch the procession from the small green dell Where they can all three see Exceedingly well.

So the procession Passed through the wood to the blue sea shore, And they buried the king Where the blue waves sing ... And the young king rules no more. But late that night through the lonely wood Came a slim brown maid who had understood, And mated her soul with the young, dead king, With never a priest or mass or ring ... And she carried a dagger with poisoned tip, And pressed its point to her soft red lip ... And she lay on the grave, and died.

Still at the turn of the year, men say, Through the old, old forest in ghostly pageant The funeral procession passes Of the young, young king Who is dead: And the gold leaves fall On his passionate purple pall, And the small brown hare still scurries ahead As if she were leading them all.

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