Queen Henrietta Maria

Oscar Wilde

In the lone tent, waiting for victory,
    She stands with eyes marred by the mists of pain,
    Like some wan lily overdrenched with rain:
The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined sky,
War's ruin, and the wreck of chivalry,
    To her proud soul no common fear can bring:
    Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King,
Her soul a-flame with passionate ecstasy.
O Hair of Gold! O Crimson Lips! O Face
    Made for the luring and the love of man!
    With thee I do forget the toil and stress,
The loveless road that knows no resting place,
    Time's straitened pulse, the soul's dread weariness,
    My freedom and my life republican!