There doesn't seem to be any indentations, so I hope it makes sense as it is. Enjoy.

The Unfortunate Princess

A wretched cold crept ‘cross the floor that night,
Stole under rush and laid between the stones.
It was the twisted mouth of winter’s rite
That moaned a wind to shatter brittle bones.
Night’s pearl, encircled by a misty ring,
Her white companions blinking, saw a face
Within a window. The daughter of a king
Looked high and cried to quiet Heaven, the taste
Of salty tears upon her lip. She wept
Into her folded hands and looked towards
The huddled houses, silent as they slept—
Those humble homes to lesser dames and petty lords.
She sighed a song so softly sung, its notes
Flung sweetly at the cold—and incomplete.
Her fingers curled upon the sill; her coat
Fell round with skirts that whispered ‘bout her feet,
Was heavy with a hem of sparkling gems.
“If only I could be like You,” she said,
Imploring gravely to the God of man.
She closed her eyes and bowed her raven head,
Caressed the crown that rested in her lap.
“I’ll die to live in such a friendless place,
Where even shadows fear to tread. I’m trapped,
Unhappy, tired by ‘Your Grace, Your Grace’.
“How often have I played the parts? A waif, a nun,
A simpleton? Oh, some are pleased, more pleased
To labour fiercely ‘neath the burning sun.
What must I give to live my life with ease?
Not here where wary eyes do dart about,
Where plotters scheme their way into a fray,
Their guilty necks cleaved neatly for a crowd.
“How can I ever be like You? I say
Because You’re good, because all love You.
The heavens thunder when You’re there—and yet
They cry, too. You’re happy, Lord, I know it’s true
Or else why live forever? Have You regrets?
But you are not a person: wicked, evil.”
And Thunder spoke, and He spoke gently:
“To be like Me would be to die for all
The rich and all the poor. All that praise Me
‘Fore the night and curse Me in the day.
And oftentimes I, sighing, sadly know:
For those who love, there’s just that a sum who hate.
“Give away your precious things and all you own,
Or ere you grasp the gold for your contentment,
Remember first to store it in your heart.
Possess ye nothing needless—or contempt
For those who better you with things. They are
Still vainly buying smiles with their shillings.”
The lady made her face so grave and said,
“My precious things? My pearls, my pretty rings?
The very thought is madness! Now, to bed!
I’ll promptly think on it before I sleep.”
Her prayer lingered on the air, forgotten
Soon and wittingly. Wind snatched its airy
Melody and cast it on the stones.
Then the moon did disappear, firmament
Gone behind a cloud. And then the snow swirled
Round and round; it fluttered through the casement.
The crying princess dried her tears, unfurled
Her fingers on her brow, and wandered to
The door. “My maid!” she cried, and when she came,
She pointed crossly at the hearth and flew
To quickly close the window. No snow or rain
Or god would penetrate its frosty panes.
“Goodnight, goodnight; I’ll see thee in the morning.”
The fire warmed her bed and darkness waned,
And God, unheeded, said, “You have nothing.”