The King

The night doth cut with shadowy knife
In half the kingdom of the sun;
The red dawn meets with her in strife;–
Vassal of mine I hold each one.

The sailors chant beside the mast,
The tempest lash the riven foam,
But I, the King, am striding fast
Before the prow, to guide it home.

I am the lover wed to tears,
I am the cynic cold and sage,
I am the ghost of noble years,
I am the prophet lapp’d in rage.

I am the fane no longer trod
That moulders on the wild hill-brow;
I am the fresh and radiant god
To whom the young religions bow.

Perfection woo’d in many a guise
Is in my charge, a stabled beast;
The myriad moons look from my eyes;
The worlds unnam’d sit at my feast.

My glance is in the splendid noon,
The golden orchid blown of heat;
My brow is as the South lagoon,
And all the stars are at my feet.

The lost waves moan: I made their song.
The lost lands dream: I wove their trance.
The earth is old, and death is strong;
Stronger am I, the true Romance.

~R.T. Chandler~

Published in: on April 22, 2008 at 1:25 am  Leave a Comment  
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