C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Ethelwyn Wetherald (1857–1940)

LOVE with the deep eyes and soft hair,

Love with the lily throat and hands,

Is done to death, and free as air

Am I of all my King’s commands.

How shall I celebrate my joy?

Or dance with feet that once were fleet

In his adorable employ?

Or laugh with lips that felt his sweet?

How can I at his lifeless face

Aim any sharp or bitter jest,

Since roguish destiny did place

That tender target in my breast?

Nay, let me be sincere and strong:

I cannot rid me of my chains,

I cannot to myself belong:

My King is dead—his soul still reigns.