Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Question from Liz M - Anne Boleyn poem

Can anyone help me to find a poem about Anne Bolyne pleading to Henry for her life, I heard the poem over fifty years ago and one of the lines went something like this:-

'Her little feet in scarlet shoon they made a pleasant sound across the pavement where the moon made patterns on the ground'

4 comments:

shtove said...

I googled that quote in various bits, couldn't find anything.

Sounds very touching. Maybe something to do with their correspondence before they fell out?

Anonymous said...

her little feet in scarlet shoes, they made a pleasant sound.
Across the pavement where the moon drew patterns on the ground.
Her little fist so clenched white beat heavily on the door.
The oaken door that to her site would open never more.
So young was she to die alone, so fair and full of fears.
So warm to rest beneath the stone for countless many years.
And sometimes now men hear her feet across that tower floor. Her voice beseech, her small hands beat upon that oaken door.
Oh Henry, oh how dear my king I privy let me in. How could thou do this cruel thing to little Mary Anne Boleyn.

Liz M said...

Thanks to you both.

Anonymous - I love the poem but its not the one I remember maybe it is another verse of the poem as the last line beginning 'Oh Henry' was the last line of the poem I knew.

Liz

Brenda said...

Yes, I too have been trying to find the poem & the author. I've never heard it for 50 years, either. The wording is just a little incorrect, it should say 'Harry' not 'Henry' which is the more familiar term for Henry. Also wording should be 'shoon' not shoes, this was used at the time. Also 'prithee' (i.e. pray thee' not privy. Also coulds't (rather than could you), which was language in use at the time. Finally, it should be 'merry' not Mary Anne Boleyn.

Here's my version:
Her little feet in scarlet shoon, they made a pleasant sound.
Across the pavement where the moon drew patterns on the ground.

Her little fist so clenched and white beat heavy on the door.
The oaken door that to her sight would open never more.

So young was she to die alone, so fair and full of fears.
So warm to rest beneath the stone, for countless many years.

And sometimes now men hear her feet across that tower floor.
Her voice beseech, her small hands beat upon that oaken door.

Oh Harry love, o dear my King, I prithee let me in.
How coulds't thou do this cruel thing to merry Anne Boleyn?