As the courtly throng are bending now, 

 And give the King his meed, 

 And slaves waved forests of peacock fans 

 And a cry went up like a single man's, 

 'This is the King indeed.' 

 "For I could be King and Overlord 

 In the wondrous realm of the written word, 

 Am King there ... in my dreams. 

 So, loving dreams, this life I choose— 

 The tramp's with tattered coat and shoes, 

 Yet happier than it seems. 

 "Thus, oh! my dreams, you grow not old, 

 No process dims you, leaves you cold, 

 Immortal, bright, you come, 

 And if you come not, I am wise, 

 I have my trusted old allies, 

 Tobacco, beer, and rum." 

 His chin sank down upon his breast, 

 And suddenly the brown bird ceased 

 To pour her strain abroad. 

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