’Tis the whole world whereon they lie,
The rocky pastures hung on high
Shelve off upon an empty sky. 
But they creep near the edge, look down—­
Great heaven! another world afloat,
Moored as in seas of air; remote
As their own childhood; swooning away
Into a tenderer sweeter day,
Innocent, sunny.  ’O for wings! 
There lie the lands of other kings—­
I Sigismund, my sometime crown
Forfeit; forgotten of renown
My wars, my rule; I fain would go
Down to yon peace obscure.’

Even so;
Down to the country of the thyme,
Where young kids dance, and a soft chime
Of sheepbells tinkles; then at last
Down to a country of hollows, cast
Up at the mountains full of trees,
Down to fruit orchards and wide leas.

XXXVIII.

With name unsaid and fame unsunned
He walks that was King Sigismund. 
With palmers holy and pilgrims brown,
New from the East, with friar and clown,
He mingles in a walled town,
And in the mart where men him scan
He passes for a merchant man. 
For from his vest, where by good hap
He thrust it, he his plumed cap
Hath drawn and plucked the gems away,
And up and down he makes essay
To sell them; they are all his wares
And wealth.  He is a man of cares,
A man of toil; no roof hath he
To shelter her full soon to be
The mother of his dispossessed
Desired heir.

XXXIX.

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.