At last, the blessed night draws down,
Like velvet cold on fevered crown,
No Lord of the apple towns, I,
No darling heir of hop-frames high,
This darkling manor, none of mine,
I trespass from an Eastern shore,
Outcast by the witch-queen’s war.
Far-off the flares of my demise,
Magisterial dark oaks rise,
I am the hapless Pauper King,
In teary-eyed lament of spring,
At peace with every bitter thing,
No prophet’s shine about my head,
‘Tis filled with dullard thoughts instead.
And then I, drunk on nothing left,
Except this shameful heart bereft,
Of hope; cold under black abyss,
And clutch at gates and almost miss,
The beating at the heart of bliss,
And return’d to halls, thrice content,
Shut out the peasant horde’s lament.