"One word, that has my sorrow for a sound-"

The hard, unhappy queen of England said-

One word for grief and glory will be found

Written upon my heart when I am dead."

And every day, oh, every day, I see

Her peoples pass. They sleep not well at night,

Yet go with royal grace by day, as free

As if that burden in the breast were slight.

The queen is dead. Long live her troubled kind.

Their speech is salty and their patience brief.

Their ecstasies are tangled in the mind.

A season seems to overwhelm their grief,

But pulling the boughs of summer down they find

The signature of autumn on the leaf.