Poems (Piatt)/Volume 1/If I were a Queen
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IF I WERE A QUEEN.
"But if you were a Queen?" you said.
Well, then I think my favourite page
Should have a yellow, restless head,
And be just your own pretty age.
So sweet in violet velvet, he
Should tend my butterflies in herds,
Or help that belted knight, the bee,
Win honey, or make little birds
Some little songs to sing for me—
If I were a Queen.
Well, then I think my favourite page
Should have a yellow, restless head,
And be just your own pretty age.
So sweet in violet velvet, he
Should tend my butterflies in herds,
Or help that belted knight, the bee,
Win honey, or make little birds
Some little songs to sing for me—
If I were a Queen.
A Queen—you saw one sitting by
A tall man in a picture? Well
He had a harp? You need not try—
Her name is one you can not tell
And so you wonder if I could
Be Isolt, then? Not she, I fear,
To save Sir Tristram of the Wood
And all his tripping silver deer;
For it were better to be good,
If I were a Queen.
A tall man in a picture? Well
He had a harp? You need not try—
Her name is one you can not tell
And so you wonder if I could
Be Isolt, then? Not she, I fear,
To save Sir Tristram of the Wood
And all his tripping silver deer;
For it were better to be good,
If I were a Queen.
Nor Guinevere———You ask, would I
Be Queen Elizabeth? Oh! no;
For, then, should I not have to die
And leave, all hanging in a row,
Two thousand dresses? Could I bear
To sit, majestic, cross, and grey,
With red paint on my nose, or wear,
Down in my grave till Judgment Day,
The ring of Essex burning there,
If I were a Queen?
Be Queen Elizabeth? Oh! no;
For, then, should I not have to die
And leave, all hanging in a row,
Two thousand dresses? Could I bear
To sit, majestic, cross, and grey,
With red paint on my nose, or wear,
Down in my grave till Judgment Day,
The ring of Essex burning there,
If I were a Queen?
Now let me ask myself awhile.
Mary of Scotland, then?—since she
Haunts her grey castle with a smile
That one man may have died to see:
She, fairest in Romance's light;
She, saddest-storied of them all;
She—but it would not please me quite
To climb a scaffold, or to fall
Beside my lovely head to-night,
If I were a Queen.
Mary of Scotland, then?—since she
Haunts her grey castle with a smile
That one man may have died to see:
She, fairest in Romance's light;
She, saddest-storied of them all;
She—but it would not please me quite
To climb a scaffold, or to fall
Beside my lovely head to-night,
If I were a Queen.
Then she of Egypt—with the asp
To drain my deadly beauty dry?—
To see my Roman lover clasp
His sword with surer love, and die
Closer to it than me? Not so.
No desert-snake with nursing grace
Should draw my fierce heart's fiercest glow;
No coward of my conqueror's-race
Should offer me his blood, I know—
If I were a Queen.
To drain my deadly beauty dry?—
To see my Roman lover clasp
His sword with surer love, and die
Closer to it than me? Not so.
No desert-snake with nursing grace
Should draw my fierce heart's fiercest glow;
No coward of my conqueror's-race
Should offer me his blood, I know—
If I were a Queen.
Boädicéa? I were afraid
To see her scythéd chariots shine!
———Nor Vashti; for she disobeyed
Her lord, the king in kingly wine!
Then she, the Queen of the East, who found
The Wisest not so well arrayed,
In all his glory, as the ground
Arrays its lilies?—Would I fade
Into some shrunken Bible mound,
If I were a Queen?
To see her scythéd chariots shine!
———Nor Vashti; for she disobeyed
Her lord, the king in kingly wine!
Then she, the Queen of the East, who found
The Wisest not so well arrayed,
In all his glory, as the ground
Arrays its lilies?—Would I fade
Into some shrunken Bible mound,
If I were a Queen?
Semiramis? Were it not sweet
To have a palace mirror show[1]
How mad Assyria at my feet
Might lie down like a lamb? And oh!
To stand defiant, in the glare
Of rising war, and softly say:
"My Beauty will subdue them!" Rare
And royal bloom must drop away;
Nor would I as a ghost look fair,
If I were a Queen.
To have a palace mirror show[1]
How mad Assyria at my feet
Might lie down like a lamb? And oh!
To stand defiant, in the glare
Of rising war, and softly say:
"My Beauty will subdue them!" Rare
And royal bloom must drop away;
Nor would I as a ghost look fair,
If I were a Queen.
Penelopé! No, on my word:
Vexed grievously with suitors, while
Much-wandering Ulysses heard
Fine singing at the sirens' isle,
Too small were Ithaca for me!
Then she whose gold hair glitters high
With stars caught in its tangles?[2]—See,
How beautiful it is! But I
Should choose my hair on Earth to be,
If I were a Queen!
Vexed grievously with suitors, while
Much-wandering Ulysses heard
Fine singing at the sirens' isle,
Too small were Ithaca for me!
Then she whose gold hair glitters high
With stars caught in its tangles?[2]—See,
How beautiful it is! But I
Should choose my hair on Earth to be,
If I were a Queen!
Nor slight, blonde Marie Antoinette?
Nor she the Austrians called their King?
Nor any Blanche, or Margaret?
Nor Russia's Catharine? Would I bring
The Spanish woman's loth heart, then,
From Aragon to England's throne?
Or be the Italian, widowed, when
She, in a garret at Cologne,
Starved, a grey exile, shunned of men,
If I were a Queen?
Nor she the Austrians called their King?
Nor any Blanche, or Margaret?
Nor Russia's Catharine? Would I bring
The Spanish woman's loth heart, then,
From Aragon to England's throne?
Or be the Italian, widowed, when
She, in a garret at Cologne,
Starved, a grey exile, shunned of men,
If I were a Queen?
What Queen? Titania—since it seems
A woman never quite can tire
Of kissing long, fair ears! In dreams
My Gentle Joy I will admire,
And—but there is no Fairyland
Left in the crowded world, no room
For dew, for anything but sand.
Put out the moonshine, fold the bloom.
My feet could find no space to stand,
If I were a Queen.
A woman never quite can tire
Of kissing long, fair ears! In dreams
My Gentle Joy I will admire,
And—but there is no Fairyland
Left in the crowded world, no room
For dew, for anything but sand.
Put out the moonshine, fold the bloom.
My feet could find no space to stand,
If I were a Queen.
Ah! still I ask myself, what Queen?
Well, one whose days were almost done,
Who felt her grave-grass turning green,
Who saw the low light of the sun
Shrink from her palace windows, while
Her whole court watched beside her bed,
Ready to say, without a smile:
"We loved the Queen. The Queen is dead."
Then they should grieve a little while,
If I were a Queen.
Well, one whose days were almost done,
Who felt her grave-grass turning green,
Who saw the low light of the sun
Shrink from her palace windows, while
Her whole court watched beside her bed,
Ready to say, without a smile:
"We loved the Queen. The Queen is dead."
Then they should grieve a little while,
If I were a Queen.
And my whole court, I think, should show
Three little heads of lightest gold,
Two others of a darker glow;
And One bent low enough to hold
Between pale, quivering hands. And then
Some Silence should receive my soul,
My name should fade from lips of men,
My pleasant funeral-bells should toll
This hour, and dust be dust again—
If I were a Queen.
Three little heads of lightest gold,
Two others of a darker glow;
And One bent low enough to hold
Between pale, quivering hands. And then
Some Silence should receive my soul,
My name should fade from lips of men,
My pleasant funeral-bells should toll
This hour, and dust be dust again—
If I were a Queen.