Sonnet CLXXXVII:
Climb glory’s ladder to the topmost height,
Rifle the treasures of the jealous land,
In gold and purple take thy lonely stand,
As lord of those whose slavehood is delight;
What hast thou won but terrors in the night?—
The threatening specter of the bravo’s hand?
A sense of something that eludes command,
And lurks with death beyond thy quailing sight?
Thou hast made merry, as poor actors do,
Over an empty cup and painted feast,
Seeming to taste the things thou knowst the least.
What are these mockeries to the scene I view—
Love’s holy altar and his prophet priest,
Pointing to paths which gracious angels strew?
