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When the full moon is bright,
Like it is tonight,
When the shadowed hills are aglow,
Then if the northern wind gently blows
You can look 'cross the hills at a willow tree
And see what remains of the home of a queen.
Perhaps if the wind dies down, dies down,
You'll even hear a ghostly sound.
'Tis the mournful song of the spirit queen
As she roams the halls of her home and sings:
'Husband lost, daughter gone,
Only I am left with my song
To remember all that is gone,
Gone forever more.'
The floors of the castle are made of stone,
The floors she wanders all alone.
Her gossamer feet make no sound,
Behind her's the train of her pale, white gown.
Her hair once was dark, but now is faint;
Her soul is as caring as that of a saint.
So why, oh why does she endlessly roam
The ancient halls of her castle home?
Just listen close to the mournful song of the spirit queen,
Listen as she roams and sings:
'Husband lost, remembrance dim,
Forever more, I search for him.
He who is eternally gone,
Gone forever more.'
Upon the walls are tapestries,
Each depicting a girl and a king.
Each one hangs heavy with years of dust
As the queen looks upon it, she resolves she must
Never stop searching for her family,
The family she knows once more she'll see.
She'd looked for 100, looked for 1,000 years in the hills and in her home.
And that is why she forever roams.
Hear the sad cry of the spirit queen,
As she roams the valleys and sings:
'Daughter gone, forever more,
She who I search eternally for!
She who is lost, she who is gone,
Gone forever more.'
Into the valley, out of the halls,
The spirit queen continues to call
Up and down the moonlit hills,
Where the northern wind lays still
To aid the queen in her eternal quest
To bring her family to lay in perfect rest.
So if you're quiet, ever so quiet, you may hear the tune
Of the ghost queen as she sings in the light of the moon.
'Tis the mournful song of the spirit queen
As she roams the halls of her home and sings:
'Husband lost, daughter gone,
Forever to them, I sing my song.
To know they're not forever gone,
Gone forever more.
YOU ARE READING
Tristful Beauty
PoetryA few pretty poems, painted with moonlight and brushed with midnight tears.
