There are servants to do my bidding;
There are servants to heed my call;
And I, with a master's air of pride,
May pace through the vaulted hall.

And I envy not the monarchs
With cities under their sway;
For am I not, in my own right,
A monarch as proud as they?

What matter, then, if to others
My castle a phantom may be,
Since I feel, in the depths of my own heart,
That it is not so to me?




APPLE-BLOSSOMS.

I sit in the shadow of apple-boughs,
In the fragrant orchard close,
And around me floats the scented air,
With its wave-like tidal flows.
I close my eyes in a dreamy bliss,
And call no king my peer;
For is not this the rare, sweet time,
The blossoming time of the year?