UNDOWERED
THOU hast not gold? Why, this is gold
All clustering round thy forehead white;
And were it weighed, and were it told,
I could not say its worth to-night!
Thou hast not wit? Why, what is this
Wherewith thou capturest many a wight,
Who doth forget a tongue is his,
As I well-nigh forgot to-night?
Nor station? Well, ah, well! I own
Thou hast no place assured thee quite;
So now I raise thee to a throne;
Begin thy reign, my Queen, to-night.
Harriet McEwen Kimball.