Beside the dancing Loire your castle stands,
Steep roofed and gabled over pillared arch.
Its history counts the deeds of many hands;
Speaks of the hall resounding to the march
Of armored host or laughing cavalcade,
While garden walls tell of the times they caught
The breathless whispering of love essayed;
There pride with pride seems never to have fought.
For though the heart of Balafré grew cold
His corpse long hidden by the guard-room door—