LIFE
CXVII
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 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 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!
CXVIII
IT dropped so low in my regard I heard it hit the ground,And go to pieces on the stones At bottom of my mind;
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