Helen Hunt Jackson (1830–1885)

O MESSENGER, art thou the king, or I?

Thou dalliest outside the palace gate

Till on thine idle armor lie the late

And heavy dews: the morn’s bright, scornful eye

Reminds thee; then, in subtle mockery,

Thou smilest at the window where I wait,

Who bade thee ride for life. In empty state

My days go on, while false hours prophesy

Thy quick return; at last, in sad despair,

I cease to bid thee, leave thee free as air;

When lo, thou stand’st before me glad and fleet,

And lay’st undreamed-of treasures at my feet.

Ah! messenger, thy royal blood to buy,

I am too poor. Thou art the king, not I.