And all my wild young life returned, and ceased
    The years that lie between,
When you were King of Egypt, and The East,
    And I was Egypt’s queen.

II

I feel again the lengths of silken gossamer enfold
My body and my limbs in robes of emerald and gold. 
I feel the heavy sunshine, and the weight of languid heat
That crowned the day you laid the royal jewels at my feet.

You wound my throat with jacinths, green and glist’ning serpent-wise,
My hot, dark throat that pulsed beneath the ardour of your eyes;
And centuries have failed to cool the memory of your hands
That bound about my arms those massive, pliant golden bands.

You wreathed around my wrists long ropes of coral and of jade,
And beaten gold that clung like coils of kisses love-inlaid;
About my naked ankles tawny topaz chains you wound,
With clasps of carven onyx, ruby-rimmed and golden bound.

But not for me the Royal Pearls to bind about my hair,
“Pearls were too passionless,” you said, for one like me to wear,
I must have all the splendour, all the jewels warm as wine,
But pearls so pale and cold were meant for other flesh than mine.

But all the blood-warm beauty of the gems you thought my due
Were pallid as a pearl beside the love I gave to you;
O!  Love of mine come back across the years that lie between,
When you were King of Egypt—­Dear, and I was Egypt’s Queen.

WHEN GEORGE WAS KING

Cards, and swords, and a lady’s love,
That is a tale worth reading,
An insult veiled, a downcast glove,
And rapiers leap unheeding. 
    And ’tis O! for the brawl,
    The thrust, the fall,
And the foe at your feet a-bleeding.

Tales of revel at wayside inns,
The goblets gaily filling,
Braggarts boasting a thousand sins,
Though none can boast a shilling. 
    And ’tis O! for the wine,
    The frothing stein,
And the clamour of cups a-spilling.

Tales of maidens in rich brocade,
Powder and puff and patches,
Gallants lilting a serenade
Of old-time trolls and catches. 
    And ’tis O! for the lips
    And the finger tips,
And the kiss that the boldest snatches.

Tales of buckle and big rosette,
The slender shoe adorning,
Of curtseying through the minuet
With laughter, love, or scorning. 
    And ’tis O! for the shout
    Of the roustabout,
As he hies him home in the morning.

Cards and swords, and a lady’s love,
Give to the tale God-speeding,
War and wassail, and perfumed glove,
And all that’s rare in reading. 
    And ’tis O! for the ways
    Of the olden days,
And a life that was worth the leading.

DAY DAWN

All yesterday the thought of you was resting in my soul,
And when sleep wandered o’er the world that very thought she stole
To fill my dreams with splendour such as stars could not eclipse,
And in the morn I wakened with your name upon my lips.