VIII.

Art Thou a King, then? Come, His universe, Come, crown me Him a King! Pluck rays from all such stars as never fling Their light where fell a curse, And make a crowning for this kingly brow!-- What is my word? Each empyreal star Sits in a sphere afar In shining ambuscade: The child-brow, crowned by none, Keeps its unchildlike shade. Sleep, sleep, my crownless One!