To be tied to a pebble and thrown through a palace window The Moon's a mirror where dim shades Of queens are doomed to peer, The beauteous queens that loved not love Or faith or godly fear. The night-wind makes their mirror grey. The breath of Autumn drear, And many mists of time and change Have clouded it apace, In mercy veiled it lest each queen Too clearly see her face, With long-past sins deep written there, And ghostly rags she now must wear, While slain men o'er her shoulders glare, Leering at her disgrace.