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Why do they mock the dream that crowns my brow?  

I thought a king might rule by sacred breath,  

That majesty, like altar‑flame, should bow  

All hearts to awe, not bind their hands in death.  

Yet lords would weigh their acres, count their swords,  

And barter England’s soul for fleeting gain.  

I spoke in psalms, they answered me in hoards,  

My visions fell like rain on roofs of disdain.  

O crown, thou hollow prophet of my fall,  

I read the stars, but not the room of men.  

They sought a steward, I a priestly hall,  

And so I lost the realm I could not ken.  

Thus stands my ghost, a dreamer out of season,  

Undone by faith, and not by want of reason.