O'er shores of silence. From her lowly seat
Beside her husband's spake the gentle Queen:
"My daughters, from your childhood ye were still
A voice of music in your father's house -
Not wrathful music. Sing that song ye made
Or found long since, and yet in forest sing,
If haply Power Unknown may hear and help."
She spake, and at her word her daughters sang.

"Lost, lost, all lost! O tell us what is lost?
Behold, this too is hidden! Let him speak,
If any knows. The wounded deer can turn
And see the shaft that quivers in its flank;
The bird looks back upon its broken wing;
But we, the forest children, only know
Our grief is infinite, and hath no name.
What woman-prophet, shrouded in dark veil,
Whispered a Hope sadder than Fear? Long since,
What Father lost His children in the wood?
Some God? And can a God forsake? Perchance
His face is turned to nobler worlds new-made;
Perchance his palace owns some later bride
That hates the dead Queen's children, and with charm
Prevails that they are exiled from his eyes,
The exile's winter theirs--the exile's song.

"Blood, ever blood! The sword goes raging on
O'er hill and moor; and with it, iron-willed,
Drags on the hand that holds it and the man
To slake its ceaseless thirst for blood of men;