The Queen's Complaint In ruck and quibble of courtfolk This giant hulked, I tell you, on her scene With hands like derricks, Looks fierce and black as rooks; Why, all the windows broke when he stalked in. Her dainty acres he ramped through And use her gentle doves with manners rude; I do not know What fury urged him slay Her antelope who meant him naught but good. She spoke most chiding in his ear Till he some pity took upon her crying; Of rich attire He made her shoulders bare And solaced her, but quit her at cock's crowing. A hundred heralds she sent out To summon in her slight all doughty men Whose force might fit Shape of her sleep, her thought-- None of that greenhorn lot matched her bright crown. So she is come to this rare pass Whereby she treks in blood through sun and squall And sings you thus: 'How sad, alas, it is To see my people shrunk so small, so small.' --Sylvia Plath --

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