The King's Cloak.
There was a King in Norroway
Who loved a famous sport,
He followed it in the sun and snow
With the nobles of his Court.
In all his kingdom mountainous
Was none so swift as he
( For so they said who ate his bread )
At running on the ski.
His black heart swelled with pride
As the acorn swells with the tree,
And from all his kingdom mountainous
He called the men of the ski.
From fir-pricked crag and gloomy gorge
Where the lonely log-huts cling,
And till the King's word bade them cease
They raced before the King.
So raced they down a spear-broad track,
Where never tree did grow,
Between the mountains and the sea
A thousand feet below
Till sundip in a cold pearl sky
And a west of ageless pink
From a withered pine to the King enthroned
With his nobles by the brink.
There ran one with the racers
Straight-fashioned as a sword,
With sail-brown cheek and eyes as deep
As water in a fiord
And till the King's word bade them cease
None passed or touched him near,
He leapt as frightened chamois leap
And ran like a stricken deer.
Dusk threw a hateful shadow
On the King's countenance
“The guerdons of thy skill,” cried he,
“Or, boy, thy luck, perchance?
This figured ivory drinking horn!
This turquoise-hilted sword!
But... shall I see no marvel
Ere day dips in the fiord?”
“There is not in fair Norroway
My master on the ski
One bolder or more skilful....
A marvel wouldst thou see?”
— Bold and high was the answer —
“‘ Twas skill not luck, Oh! King,
I am the swiftest.... A marvel
Of whom the scalds shall sing.”
“Oh! yonder stand the mountains
And yonder moans the sea
And he who leapt from the topmost crag....
A bold man would he be.
A bold man... yea, a marvel
For the grey-haired scalds to hymn....”
Day dying touched his swarthy cheek
With a lurid light and grim,
While he made the gloomy challenge
And round a murmur ran,
But... the boy bowed low and answered,
“Oh! King, behold the man
The swiftest and the boldest
In thy kingdom by the sea,
From mountain or... from hatred
What man can do, dares he.”
... He swept down from the mountain
Like an eaglet on a hare
With bent back and swinging arms
And tossing golden hair....
The King stood by the precipice
( A small sea moaned and broke )
... Looked down over the wrinkled sea
And swiftly loosed his cloak.
... He came as an arrow is loosened....
As a slinger slings a stone,
Clutched ( as the sun shot downwards )
At one on the brink alone....
The King leapt back... the King laughed out....
The great cloak floated free....
There came no sound — tho’ he listened long —
From the darkened moaning sea.