I WOULD throw to magnificent doom

White roses at her feet.

Should she tread out the life of each bloom,

What fate could be more sweet?

I would rifle imperial graves

For rings of ancient skill;

I would bring her an army of slaves

Dependent on her will.

I would build her a wonderful home.

The place a Queen to please.

Cedar walls with an ivory dome.

Where she might dwell at ease.

Should she covet the stars or the moon.

Or, yes, the seraphim,

I am sure I should count it a boon

To satisfy her whim.

But I think of her beautiful face.

Her kind, kind English heart

With its personal treasures of grace

That have no counterpart.

And I know that she sets not the tasks

Inferior Queens decree.

That I love her, is all that she asks

Of heaven and of me.