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Spotted and sprouted with fungi-tints,
And the print was bleared with his finger-prints,

And other blotches, dabbled and dim,
That were not fungi, but tears of him.

And I halfway heard or seemed to hear
A laughter that chuckled between each tear.


That night at the palace the Emperor's rout
Was gay as day, till the stars went out.

And then it was day and John was dead,
And the Emperor alive with his crown on his head.

Much had died at the rout that night,
As far as such things die outright.

A woman died that I know was there,
Though she walked next day with a rose in her hair.

And the king's best friend who was next to the throne,
Died the very same hour as John.
(Though it was not known till the war came on!)

What died that night 'mid the palace-host
Were the things that John had never lost.

And what lived on, John never found,
Unless he got them underground.

So on his brow in lieu of this
I lean and lay a poet-kiss.

('Tis my love of John and my hate of the labour,
And not the theme makes my verse macaber.)