They asked me,
When I was only a child,
About the castle.
I told them
How I love to watch
The smoke
That blended with
the gray English sky
Rise from the turrets;
To watch the lady there,
Wistful,
Ride her mare.
I told them
That the castle was very beautiful,
But I
Did not want to live there.

They asked again,
When the flowers were but blooming,
About the castle.
Again I said
How the garden was
So beautifully kept,
And that the roses were
Fairer than any others;
But that the daughter,
Whose hair shone like
A raven's back,
Was too forlorn.
I told them
That the garden was lovely,
But I
Did not want to live there.

They asked again,
At the end of my learning age,
But then my opinion mattered not.
They packed my bags,
And moved my prizes
To that castle
Whose cold stone walls were
Not nearly so beautiful from the inside;
Where the firelight shone
On saddened faces,
On broken souls,
And the door closed me in darkness.
I told them
That the castle was cold,
But still
They locked me there.