For waking thou art human and can love.
Ah, Glaia, none doth know how I have dreamed,
For kings must give up all just to be kings—
How oft at night I've left the palace world
To find me lodging in the sweeter air
Where spirits hold their gentle pageantries,
And meet the winds that blow from destiny
Pregnant with fortune for my famished soul,—
While they who stood about the royal bed,
Whose stealthful eyes held me in silken jail,