Where wide the forest bows are spread, br Where Flora wakes with sylph and fay, br Are crowns and garlands of men dead, br All golden in the morning gay; br Within this ancient garden gray br Are clusters such as no man knows, br Where Moor and Soldan bear the sway: br This is King Louis's orchard close! br br These wretched folk wave overhead, br With such strange thoughts as none may say; br A moment still, then sudden sped, br They swing in a ring and waste away. br The morning smites them with her ray; br They toss with every breeze that blows, br They dance where fires of dawning play: br This is King Louis's orchard close! br br All hanged and dead, they've summoned br (With Hell to aid, that hears them pray) br New legions of an army dread.