Light laughter in a silver shower
Fell from fair lips: the poet rose
And cursed the hour.
Men paled and sickened; half in fear,
There came to him at dusk of eve
One who but murmured in his ear
And plucked his sleeve:
'The king is filled with irks, distressed,
And bids thee hasten to his side;
For thou alone canst give him rest.'