ANNE BOLEYN.

She walked in that room where the stone walls bleed

With a small narrow window, a lonely crack of doom.

As she dragged her silk finery and stumbled on the floor

The devils on the green had made the entrance to her tomb.

She saw from her window the stepping stones of life,

Where the black bird cracks the snail and where the shell is left to cry

And Anne, you must have wondered what a tragic life is for,

And asked a million questions that were answered when you died.

The only words she had in life she scratched above the fire,

The world may lose her memories and none will ask her name;

From that sad little room to the scaffold on the green

She was gone before she started, but she lived to die again.