Children of the Night — Sonnet

But everything is all askew to-night, -- As if the time were come, or almost come, For their untenanted mirage of me To lose itself and crumble out of sight, Like a tall ship that floats above the foam A little while, and then breaks utterly.

Sonnet The master and the slave go hand in hand, Though touch be lost.

The poet is a slave, And there be kings do sorrowfully crave The joyance that a scullion may command.

But, ah, the sonnet-slave must understand The mission of his bondage, or the grave May clasp his bones, or ever he shall save The perfect word that is the poet's wand!

The sonnet is a crown, whereof the rhymes Are for Thought's purest gold the jewel-stones;

But shapes and echoes that are never done Will haunt the workshop, as regret sometimes Will bring with human yearning to sad thrones The crash of battles that are never won.