But late that night through the lonely wood
Came a slim brown maid who had understood,
And mated her soul with the young, dead king,
With never a priest or mass or ring ...
And she carried a dagger with poisoned tip,
And pressed its point to her soft red lip ...
And she lay on the grave, and died.
Still at the turn of the year, men say,
Through the old, old forest in ghostly pageant
The funeral procession passes