Classic Poem

He sent for Edith—it was Paul's desire—
And found her very young, coming with face flushed
And her grey films averted and the storm hushed
In which she had cried like Abbott by the fire
To a maid smoothing her tangles and attire
On these incredible Kings that took your peace,
That bent the body and soul—death would release,—
Now the King sees the wild one caught in his wire.

He's taken Edith's little hand, to lay
In Paul's capacious. Hope now for no recourse,
My girl! Paul the Possessor. For better for worse.
Does the strange girl smile? “I wish you many joys;
My kingdom will be greater by many boys
If Heaven reward this union as I pray.”