Like some huge beetle curled up in the sun
Was this man lying in the noontide glare,
Deformed, and hideous to look upon,
With sunken eyes, and masses of coarse hair,
And sallow cheeks deep-seamed with time and care.
Forth from her maidens stood Queen Margaret:
The royal blood up to her temples crept,
Like a wild vine with faint red roses set,
As she across the pillared chamber swept,
And, kneeling, kissed the poet while he slept.