Poems (Mary Coleridge)/Poem 184

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CLXXXIV THE KING
It was but the lightest word of the King, When he was neither merry nor sad;It was but a very little thing, Yet it made his servant glad.
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He gave a look as it befell, Between a smile and a smothered sigh.Whether he meant it, who can tell? But the man went out to die.

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