The Poet
For one great Queen who sits in majesty,
Untouched, austere, upon a golden throne,
The like whose loveliness was never known
Of ebony and rose and ivory,—
For her you weave a broidered tapestry,
Rife with rich stains of every color-tone
Inwrought; while she immovable as stone
But watches pitiless and silently.
Yet, should this Queen of Beauty lift her arm