The Lament of Catherine of Aragon

When I was young, my tutor gave to me
A book of stories, written by a Moor.
I had to hide this treasure carefully
For even princesses are bound by law.
But every night, I’d sit by candlelight
Alone and read these outlawed fairytales,
And go to sleep with dreams of dark-skinned knights
Who, dressed in pointed helms and golden mail,
Would kidnap me and whisk me to their lands
Of secret deserts, scorched from high above,
And there, amid the soft and glowing sands
Of Andalus, would sing to me of love.
When no one was awake, when nothing stirred,
When all the palace slept beneath the stars,
I’d read of a princess of Christian birth
Abducted by an Arab from afar.
He stole into her room at dead of night
And spellbound by her skin, as white as milk,
As pale and delicate as soft moonlight,
He stole her; on a horse with wings of silk,
They flew for seven nights and seven days,
Until a castle grew from golden dunes,
Its spires lost within the sky’s blue haze,
Its walls surrounded by a blue lagoon.
And seeing it, the princess shed a tear,
And murmured to the Moor, “Is this your home?”
And smiling, he replied, “My darling dear,
This home is ours, yours and mine alone.”
But still the princess cried, because she missed
The snows of northern Spain where she was born,
And so the Moor, he stroked her hair and kissed
Her hand and said, “Love, do not be forlorn.
You are my love, my dream, and I will show
How much my love will do to prove it’s true,
So sleep tonight, and dream of silent snow
And on the morrow, wake and see the view.”
And so she slept in perfumed sheets so fine,
And dreamed of snow that fell without a sound,
And when she woke, she rose to see the shine
Of sunlight that, it seemed, shone all around.
And shading her blue eyes from such bright light,
She wandered to the window, where she saw
Just how much she was loved by this dark knight,
Just how much she was worshipped and adored.
For there below, enveloping the land,
As far as where horizon met the sky,
There was, instead of dry and dusty sand,
A sea of poppies of the purest white.
And happier than she had ever been
She cried one tear, which dropped and dried away
But ever after, she was never seen
To cry again until her dying day.
No longer am I now that little child
For I may read whatever books I like.
No longer am I happily beguiled
By stories of a kidnap in the night.
No longer do I dream of distant lands
For I have lived away from home for years.
No longer may I cry away the sand
For I am dry, and parched of any tears.
Two princes now have come to take my hand
And whisk me off to foreign spires and towers.
Two brothers, both the heirs to England,
And neither ever gave me any flowers.
And though I cannot outward let it show
There never was a wife more worn with woe.