The Old Princess

AND by the dying embers sits a princess.
But she is old now — old.
Her hair thin wisps of curling gray
And her bony fingers cold.
She remembers when his horse’s feet
Were loud on the bridge,
And his boyish voice, for her alone,
Rang sweet across the ridge;
She’d come running out to meet him,
With the moon on her left shoulder,
And smile — as only she could smile —
At the lovely things he told her,
When he tied his horse to the apple tree
And met her close embrace,
And poured the boyish soul of him
His lips against her face.
But he heard the call of the flying geese
And left her sitting there,
With the slamming of an empty door
And a creaking on the stair.