Written at the request of my daughter (who adored movie
stars until she discovered that dead queens are even more
wonderful) after finding a picture of the homesick Queen
Shub Ad’s harp* in a book.

The queen was sick for her hills.
She spread her long hands on her harp,
Plucking with fingers nimble and sharp,
She sang of her queenly ills,
Alone. And the small twanging note
Touched the empty wave of the air
And put the air into tune.
A fisher in a painted boat
And a girl washing her midnight hair
In the shallow water of noon,
Listened as we listen to trills
Of little birds sheltered with green,
And they said: “Ah, the poor queen!
“She is sick again for her hills!”

*