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Revolution
My bed still bears the imprint of thy form,
A faint perfume still hangs upon the air,
Like dying roses, but no longer warm
This breast so wont thy loveliness to wear.
Mere outline of what was, the skeleton
Of former joyfulness denied me now;
The shrine is empty and no queen upon
My heart's throne reigns with love-anointed brow.
The queen is dead. Set up another queen.
Nay, for their reign is over, and I can
No more support such despots. They have been.
I'll rule myself, a state republican.
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