Poems (Mary Coleridge)/Poem 184
CLXXXIVTHE KING
It was but the lightest word of the King,
When he was neither merry nor sad;
It was but a very little thing,
Yet it made his servant glad.
When he was neither merry nor sad;
It was but a very little thing,
Yet it made his servant glad.
He gave a look as it befell,
Between a smile and a smothered sigh.
Whether he meant it, who can tell?
But the man went out to die.
Between a smile and a smothered sigh.
Whether he meant it, who can tell?
But the man went out to die.