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” today For my will goes the other way, And it were perjury!
