That the poison-vine clings to—
And the black-snakes slide in the slimy tide
Where the ghost of the moon looks blue.
What am I but a King—a King!—
For the royal robes I wear—
A sceptre, too, and a signet-ring,
As vassals and serfs declare:
And a voice, god wot, that is equalled not
In the wide world anywhere!
I can talk to the Night—the Night!—