To me, though, it mattereth not.
The winds that blow lightly oft sour the cream,
And the sun on the daisies is hot.
I sigh for the hopeless; I yearn for a sphere;
I am waiting for something to come.
Our dolls are but sawdust, and life’s but a tear;
I am sick of the world’s prosy hum.
No prince comes to wake me—all glittering and tall;
No fairies will rise at my need.
Oh, come, Prince, and take me from dull duty’s thrall!