That Which Cannot Rest Content

Suppose there was a king who loved a humble maiden.
—S. Kierkegaard, Philosophical Fragments

And in the king’s good chest, suppose an anxious thought,
which counsel or rebuke could not dispel; suppose
the nibbled notion that his favor once conferred
would sour, like stale wine on last night’s table; 
that sudden transport up the social mountain 
(the bride bathed quick in milk, dried hurriedly with sables) 
might taint the downy thing that had turned magnet pole, 
pulling heart’s red needle; suppose the torment of the helpless throne, 
loosing headsmen in gaunt, teary rage, dividing vertebrae 
of any fool suggesting tilted unions do not herald joy; and
suppose this all stood fable for your own well-threshed sorrows: 
now bowing under barley-weight of over-fruitful life, 
now rousing the nude grief that sleeps, delicate, in love.