My Palace. High over the lamp-post, high over the street, Remote from the traffic, its rush and its beat, ’Neath a sky now o’erclouded, now sunny and blue, I dwell in the stillness, my dear one, with you. My windows are grimy, my walls they are bare, A wreck is my table, a ruin my chair ! Yet I prize them far better than if they were new, For they tell me, my dear one, they tell me of you ! Untroubled by visitors, tranquil I brood, At the chimney-top’s level folk seldom intrude ; And I heed them but little if ever they do, For I’m talking, my dear one, still talking to you. Then as dusk over gable and roof hovers near, And the first star is faintly beginning to peer, Half a song, half a sigh, the dim casement steals thro’, And the angel who breathes it, my dearest, is you.