Classic Poem

The great King Harold Harfager
Sits in the sea below,
Beside his lovely water-fay;
The years, they come and go.

He cannot live, he cannot die,
Bewitched in his magic tomb;
Already for two hundred years
He has dreed his blissful doom.

The head of the king on the lovely lap
Of the woman lies, and still
He gazes upward on her eyes,
He cannot gaze his fill.

His golden hair grows silver-grey,
And, from his face so pale,
The bones of his cheek, like a ghost's, stick out,
His body is withered and frail.

And many a time from his dream of love
On a sudden he starts, and shakes,
For the billows on high are raging wild,
And his crystal palace quakes.

And oft in the wind he seems to hear
The Norseman's battle-call,
And lifts his arms in gleeful haste;
Then sadly lets them fall.

And even the sailors he will hear,
Who sing as they sail along,
And praise King Harold Harfager
In a glorious hero-song.

And then the king from his inmost soul
Will groan and sob and weep;
But the water-fay will quickly bend,
And kiss his woe to sleep.