The King's three blind daughters
Sit locked in a hold.
In the darkness their lamps
Make a glimmer of gold.
Up the stair of the turret
The sisters are gone,
Seven days they wait there
And the lamps they burn on.
"What hope?" says the first,
And leans o'er the flame.
"I hear our lamps burning.
O yet! if he came!"
"O hope!" says the second,
"Was that the lamps' flare,
Or a sound of low footsteps?
The Prince on the stair!"
But the holiest sister
She turns her about:
"O no hope now for ever,
Our lamps are gone out!"