Safed from more harm by ark of stone Runed with the scratch of lightning-branch Of antler-shape and otter-track He lies interred, the king of elves, Beneath and here in this wide glade Of purple swaying, breathing flowers Whose mandarin heads toward this is bowed: A tree of white whose albent leaves Blend with the clouds; no epigram Can mark this barkéd headstone though Where lies the king as white as snow, Wounds written in his girlish brow Where weight of wisdom made him grow Too heavy for the lily-paths Which wend upon the waters of the fey. Closed in his silver silent grasp A budded wand which Odin used For stylus on the soul’s white softened wax. Sweet apples nectared yellow of the wine Which drips adown the fragrant beards of gods Hang from the tree whose leaves are feather-down. Someone will come to wake their friend from sleep. Old men, old, covered with white feathers and their eyes Blue like as frosty stars sit down upon his grave, And drink the milk that flows out of the side Of this white tree whose stony roots Hermas the Shepherd once espied After he bathéd in the silverquick of sleep. They walk upon the water bearing myrrh, Three sisters of the king; the world Is pink and strange and perfect like a pearl. They weep. As children when they first awake from sleep Stretch out their slumbered limbs so these Runes graven on his box begin To lunge and dance and shake; Bird-foot and paw of bear and zed of snake Facsmililate a zodiac Upon the king’s petrific ark. The old men covered in the feathers of the swan Begin to dance and call “Surcease the wake!” Opens one eye of his, The Once and Future King.
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