The Recreant Queens

To be tied to a pebble and thrown through a palace window

The Moon's a mirror where dim shades
Of queens are doomed to peer,
The beauteous queens that loved not love
Or faith or godly fear.
The night-wind makes their mirror grey.
The breath of Autumn drear,
And many mists of time and change
Have clouded it apace,
In mercy veiled it lest each queen
Too clearly see her face,
With long-past sins deep written there,
And ghostly rags she now must wear,
While slain men o'er her shoulders glare,
Leering at her disgrace.