Classic Poem

Those were odd tales you told me when I was young
And used to sit in wonder at your knee.
They had the northland horror and mystery—
Come down, I think, from ages when songs were sung
Beside a fire in some cold vaulted hall
For bearded men who smelt of beef and mead,
Who, chin on fist, gave heed as children heed,
While torches smoked and spears leaned by the wall.
Their world was yours; my elders and my betters
Perplexed me with their wisdom and their pride,
Being far too eager that I should learn my letters.
But you, blood-curdling kitchen-queen, swung wide
Awful romance for me, and burst my fetters
With lovely murder as I dreamed at your side.