Sonnet Xcviii: Poem by George Henry Boker

Within this realm, sweet Lady, thou art queen--
Queen? Goddess, rather; for upon thy will
The whole great pageant changes or is still,
Ice-bound and dead, or decked in living green.
Thy smile gilds all things with a sunny sheen;
Thy frown can make the landscape quake and thrill,
And the wild lightnings leap from cloud to hill,
As though a tempest burst upon the scene.
O! gently sway this kingdom of my art,
And wisely temper thy supreme decree,
So that its stress may lightly fall on me!
For hap what may, I am a sentient part
Of every atom that is ruled by thee,
And the fixed center is my silent heart.