Is mine; the length of all this gloomy land
Knows no more sun than falls from my white hand.
My wealth great kings have prayed for—in their pride,
Bowing before me. Nay—I hate the place.
I am no queen at heart—my laughter died
That I might wear my crown with regal grace
The very flowers which smile on my sad face
I am afraid of. See! they are the worst
Of all my fears; so fair—yet black accurst.
The languid passion-poppy sways and dips