The King.
	
	The night doth cut with shadowy knife
	In half the kingdom of the sun;
	The red dawn meets with her in strife;--
	Vassal of mine I hold each one.

	The sailors chant beside the mast,
	The tempest lash the riven foam,
	But I, the King, am striding fast
	Before the prow, to guide it home.
	
	I am the lover wed to tears,
	I am the cynic cold and sage,
	I am the ghost of noble years,
	I am the prophet lapp'd in rage.

	I am the fane no longer trod
	That moulders on the wild hill-brow;
	I am the fresh and radiant god
	To whom the young religions bow.

	Perfection woo'd in many a guise
	Is in my charge, a stabled beast;
	The myriad moons look from my eyes;
	The worlds unnam'd sit at my feast.

	My glance is in the splendid noon,
	The golden orchid blown of heat;
	My brow is as the South lagoon,
	And all the stars are at my feet.

	The lost waves moan: I made their song.
	The lost lands dream: I wove their trance.
	The earth is old, and death is strong;
	Stronger am I, the true Romance.

			R. T. Chandler