(117)
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” to-day,
For my will goes the other way,
And it were perjury!
