 | Poems and Sonnets |  |
11
THE SONNET-THRONE.
I
I would have built a throne of sonnets highAnd seated you thereon—an ivory throne—
A delicate golden sceptre all your own
My hand had been most cunning to supply,
And crimson curtains should have fluttered nigh,
And flower after flower have been sown,
That regal perfumes might be gently blown
About you, queenly colours greet your eye;
But—you are gone! and in disgust I hurl
My chisel down, I split my poet's pen,
The gorgeous hangings I am quick to furl,
The flowers to uproot that flourished when
Their petals might anticipate the ken
That raised me to a singer from a churl.
14
II
What shall I do without you? Can I writeWorship and sigh towards the barren airs,
And having laid so many careful stairs,
Each step a sonnet, gold or rosy white
Alternate, lady, lady, is it right
To leave the queenly seat at top unfilled?
Over the silken cushion I have spilled
My very soul in flowery phrases bright,
And now you scorn my offering! down—down—down
With every step and stone and ornament!
Just as an angry child with bitter frown
Sweeps all the toys aside to which he lent
His heart a moment since, so am I bent
On utterly destroying this fair town!
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