WHEN the night her vision is weaving With moonlight and starlight for warp, The King in his chamber arises And wakens the voice of his harp. He sees not the hands of him playing, He hears but a melody sweet; He hears but the heart of him beating With a musical, magical beat. He gazes out through the window On the world in beauty bedight— Forgotten the throne and the sceptre In a holier, higher delight! He sees like a picture before him, The quiet, green fields where he spent His youthful years as a shepherd, His only palace—a tent— His sceptre—the flute of the shepherd, Carved of the cedar-wood hard; His fortune and lonely treasure— The soulful pride of the bard. Then pours he his soul on the harp-strings— Forgetful of sorrow and pain— The old, gray monarch of Judah Is a youthful Poet again! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE GOLDEN CORPSE by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET THE IMPORTANCE OF GREEN by JAMES GALVIN DEAD LEAVES by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON RETROSPECT by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: MRS. MERRITT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |