Poem by Archibald Lampman

The King's Sabbath

Once idly in his hall king Olave sat
  Pondering, and with his dagger whittled chips;
  And one drew near to him with austere lips,
Saying, "To-morrow is Monday," and at that
The king said nothing, but held forth his flat
  Broad palm, and bending on his mighty hips,
  Took up and mutely laid thereon the slips
Of scattered wood, as on a hearth, and gat
From off the embers near, a burning brand.
  Kindling the pile with this, the dreaming Dane
Sat silent with his eyes set and his bland
  Proud mouth, tight-woven, smiling, drawn with pain,
  Watching the fierce fire flare, and wax, and wane,
Hiss and burn down upon his shrivelled hand.

1. Passion
2. A Ballade of Waiting
3. The Little Handmaiden
4. Abu Midjan
5. Before Sleep

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