Good things I keep to console me
For lack of the best of all,
A child to command and control me,
Bid come and remain at his call.
Sun, wind, and woodland and highland,
Give all that ever they gave:
But my world is a cultureless island,
My spirit a masterless slave.
And friends are about me, and better
At summons of no man stand:
But I pine for the touch of a fetter,
The curb of a strong king's hand.
Each hour of the day in her season
Is mine to be served as I will:
And for no more exquisite reason
Are all served idly and ill.
By slavery my sense is corrupted,
My soul not fit to be free:
I would fain be controlled, interrupted,
Compelled as a thrall may be.
For fault of spur and of bridle
I tire of my stall to death:
My sail flaps joyless and idle
For want of a small child's breath.