Where wide the forest bows are spread, <br />Where Flora wakes with sylph and fay, <br />Are crowns and garlands of men dead, <br />All golden in the morning gay; <br />Within this ancient garden gray <br />Are clusters such as no man knows, <br />Where Moor and Soldan bear the sway: <br />_This is King Louis's orchard close_! <br /> <br />These wretched folk wave overhead, <br />With such strange thoughts as none may say; <br />A moment still, then sudden sped, <br />They swing in a ring and waste away. <br />The morning smites them with her ray; <br />They toss with every breeze that blows, <br />They dance where fires of dawning play: <br />_This is King Louis's orchard close_! <br /> <br />All hanged and dead, they've summoned <br />(With Hell to aid, that hears them pray) <br />New legions of an army dread. <br />Now down the blue sky flames the day; <br />The dew dies off; the foul array <br />Of obscene ravens gathers and goes, <br />With wings that flap and beaks that flay: <br />_This is King Louis's orchard close_! <br /> <br /> <br />ENVOI <br /> <br />Prince, where leaves murmur of the May, <br />A tree of bitter clusters grows; <br />The bodies of men dead are they! <br />_This is King Louis's orchard close_!<br /><br />Theodore de Banville<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ballade-des-pendus/
