Classic Poem

I AM the Queen anointed,—crown'd;
My forehead is all with roses bound,
 But pale, all pale!
With rosemary boughs and slips of yew,
With violets shrunk, and lilies, too,
 But pale, still pale!
I am the Bride whose arms are wound
About my lover without a sound;
I whisper soft,
And he flies aloft,
 But pale, all pale!
Whatever I will-whate'er I say,
Wherever I look—all things obey:
From the iron clown to the kings of clay,
 My words ne'er fail:
I wither the bud, and the passion bloom;
I strip the rose of her young perfume;
I breathe—and the flower doth bear no fruit;
I come—and the singer's voice is mute;
The harp unstrung, and lost the lute:
 And trumpets wail
My coming, although no battle's near,
And burst on the self-slain soldier's bier,
 And hill and dale
And fountains lone, and the running river,
Sea and sea-shore,
 Hard rocks, and mountains cold and hoar,
From all their echoing peaks cry out for ever,
 ‘Hail! hail! hail!’

And now, pale youth, I come to thee,
Whose home is under the willow tree,
And thou may'st dream
Where it dips its hair in the fond fond stream:
 But, arise!—arise!
What can come of human sighs,
Lover's sorrow—weeping eyes—
When all that cometh quickly flies?
Arise, and leave thy buried bride,
And come with me to the water's side,
Where lilies gay
Lie sleeping on the shining tide,
Which flies away
Unto the ocean far and wide,
 Day after day!
The weeping stars will be ever o'er thee,
And she thou lov'st is gone before thee,
 So, ne'er delay;
The Past is lost, the Present lone,
So we will fly to a world unknown;
And be as thou wishest, sad or gay,
Thro' summer and spring, and winter day:—
Come on! We will seek thy wasted bride:
Behold,—I am Death , the amorous-eyed,
 Who reign for aye!