Classic Poem

I'll tell thee, if thou carest, what's a king:
A creature all men feed on, — sucked, and bled;
A carcass in the leech-pond, not yet dead;
Whose shape you scarce can see, so close they cling.

Sunk to the throat in forms; as cramped a thing
As is the Turkish felon, who is said
To be interred alive, all save the head,
For passing dogs to sniff at, wondering.

In life he bears the weight of pomp and fear,
Of all the instincts that he has repressed,
Of all the fictions that he has to wear;

In death no sun nor blade of grass may rest
Upon the horror of his triple bier,
But some dark minster weighs upon his chest.