The fairy king sits on his rock-hewn throne
adorned with silver, gold and jeweled stone.
His heart is bleak; in court the minstrels moan.
He broods in silence and he weeps alone.
His blossom wings he spreads to tower high,
its feathers showered by the silver sky.
All love is gone, a gloomful dawn draws nigh
as lies his queen upon her funeral pyre.
The day is darkened, earth in earnest quakes.
The requiem rite the fairy lords partake
concludes. At last the king will cross the lake:
The fay, must now the western world forsake.

His sons reject not day and deeds of strife
and still they claim the stone that took her life.