XXIV

Good things I keep to console me For lack of the best of all, A child to command and control me, Bid come and remain at his call.

Sun, wind, and woodland and highland, Give all that ever they gave: But my world is a cultureless island, My spirit a masterless slave.

And friends are about me, and better At summons of no man stand: But I pine for the touch of a fetter, The curb of a strong king's hand.

Each hour of the day in her season Is mine to be served as I will: And for no more exquisite reason Are all served idly and ill.

By slavery my sense is corrupted, My soul not fit to be free: I would fain be controlled, interrupted, Compelled as a thrall may be.

For fault of spur and of bridle I tire of my stall to death: My sail flaps joyless and idle For want of a small child's breath.