Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Short studies of American authors

Thought.

Messenger, art thou the king, or I?
Thou dalliest outside the palace-gate
Till on thine idle armor lie the late
And heavy dews: the morn's bright, scornful eye
Reminds thee; then, in subtle mockery,
Thou smilest at the window where I wait
Who bade thee ride for life. In empty state
My days go on, while false hours prophesy
Thy quick return; at last in sad despair
I cease to bid thee, leave thee free as air;
When lo! thou stand'st before me glad and fleet,
And lay'st undreamec — of treasures at my feet.
Ah! messenger, thy royal blood to buy,
I am too poor. Thou art the king, not I. ¹

Burnt ships.

Love, sweet Love, who came with rosy sail
And foaming prow across the misty sea!
O Love, brave Love, whose faith was full and free