XXXIV
I have a king who does not speak;So, wondering, thro’ the hours meekI trudge the day away,—Half glad when it is night and sleep,If, haply, thro’ a dream to peepIn parlors shut by day.
And if I do, when morning comes,It is as if a hundred drumsDid round my pillow roll,And shouts fill all my childish sky,And bells keep saying ‘victory’From steeples in my soul!
And if I don’t, the little BirdWithin the Orchard is not heard,And I omit to pray,‘Father, thy will be done’ to-day,For my will goes the other way,And it were perjury!