The World-Mother sits on her sky-blue eggs--
“A mare’s nest!” cries the minstrel, laughing.
“Her wings are lovely--but what of her legs?”
Cries the youngest page to the courtiers scoffing.
“A wicked bird,” cries the mitred priest--
“To lay blue eggs and to sit on them!
Blue is no colour for bird or beast
Blue is the colour of our Lady’s hem.”
“A shameless bird!” cries the old queen mother,
“Eggs should be mottled white, not blue.”
“A pox on the bird!” cries the old king’s brother--
“There’s no such bird!” cry the courtier crew.
Home from hunting returned the King--
White as a young birch-tree was he.
“Ye are all of you plotting a curséd thing!
And evil is your conspiracy!
“I have seen the World-Mother upon her nest;
I have seen those eggs, blue as the sky;
And for what I have seen I would give the rest
Of my kingdom; and willingly die!”
And the minstrel winked at the youngest page;
And the old queen pinched the fool;
And the mitred priest to hide his rage
Grinned at them like a ghoul.
“Down on your knees to the great World-Mother!
’Tis I, your King, who begs.”
But they stood stock-still and stared at each other--“The
King is mad,” cried the old king’s brother.
“I’ve traveled the world from one end to another--
Those eggs are Heron’s eggs!”
From the walls of the Madhouse upon the hill,
When this traveler came to be crowned
At the Queen’s and the Priest’s and the Courtier’s will,
There fell a curious sound--
A sound that was like the flapping of wings;
And a radiant voice that was like the King’s!