The King Was in His Counting House

The king was in his counting house,
Counting out his gold
While she, in tones so wistful,
Did a sad, sad tale unfold
Of formal fears, and abstract tears,
And reasoned, unfelt cold.

The hall was dim, the prince had gone,
Just empty laughter heard —
The cobwebs mocked the elegance,
Now indistinct and blurred,
The dust described an outline
Of the former deed and word
That once had fired the furnace
But was now with ash interred.