Five-and-thirty black slaves, <br />Half-a-hundred white, <br />All their duty but to sing <br />For their Queen's delight, <br />Now with throats of thunder, <br />Now with dulcet lips, <br />While she rules them royally <br />With her finger-tips! <br /> <br />When she quits her palace, <br />All the slaves are dumb- <br />Dumb with dolour till the Queen <br />Back to Court is come: <br />Dumb the throats of thunder, <br />Dumb the dulcet lips, <br />Lacking all the sovereignty <br />Of her finger-tips. <br /> <br />Dusky slaves and pallid, <br />Ebon slaves and white, <br />When the Queen was on her throne <br />How you sang to-night! <br />Ah, the throats of thunder! <br />Ah, the dulcet lips! <br />Ah, the gracious tyrannies <br />Of her finger-tips! <br /> <br />Silent, silent, silent, <br />All your voices now; <br />Was it then her life alone <br />Did your life endow? <br />Waken, throats of thunder! <br />Waken, dulcet lips! <br />Touched to immortality <br />By her finger-tips.<br /><br />William Watson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-key-board/
