She holds my lost illusions in her hands, And all the hours of vain tenderness, The wasted faiths, the prides of brave address -- She gives me back my title and my lands. There are two voices when I speak to her; The words are cool and ordered in their spell, Put my soul hears the muted syllable Large with the mutiny it may not stir. There is so little that she keeps from me, Only herself? And who may touch the Queen? I wait her coming obediently serene, With one petition for my loyalty, That she will make with Death a royal third. Untouched she turns the wheel. She has not heard. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LET ME NOT LOSES MY DREAM by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON MOTLEY: THE GHOST by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE THE SORROW OF LOVE (1) by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS THE VILLAGE MUNITIONS CO., INC.; FORMERLY THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THE CALL by ANNYE LEWIS ALLISON SONNET TO A FRIEND, ON HIS SECOND MARRIAGE by BERNARD BARTON HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 35 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH TO A FRIEND, TOGETHER WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE |