Poetry Archives

103

I have a King, who does not speak—
So—wondering—thro’ the hours meek
I trudge the day away—
Half glad when it is night, and sleep,
If, haply, thro’ a dream, to peep
In parlors, shut by day.

And if I do—when morning comes—
It is as if a hundred drums
Did 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 Bird
Within the Orchard, is not heard,
And I omit to pray
“Father, thy will be done” today
For my will goes the other way,
And it were perjury!