Edwin Markham,
Lincoln & other poems
“ Elizabeth of Hungary I think of that friend of the people that lady of long ago,That high-born dame of Hungary who felt the common woe—Who loved the work-worn multitude whose pillow is a stone,And felt beat in upon her heart their sorrow as her own.She bent to lift, for in her blood ran some heroic strainOf simple serving majesty strayed down from Charlemagne.Queen of a hundred legends, star of a misty past,While cities rise and cities fade, her memory will last. ”
