Classic Poem

Three years; and one night there was found
Up to the heather drawn,
The Count's boat, lying on the moor —
Like a young seal that tries to flee
Inland, instead of out to sea —
But no boat there at dawn!
Some said he had appeared that night,
Dour as a thunderstroke,
And asked her for no more than this,
That she should slip the yoke:
Make off then in the dawning dim
Came she but in her smock to him,
And for kingdom, share his cloak!
Told how she seized a riding-whip
And slashed across his bearded lip
The hardy libertine.
But who puts faith in such a tale?
What eye the Count had seen?
No! ... Winters wore. The King grew bald.
All Gothland was serene.