Two that I love must live alone, Far away. All in the world I can call my own, Only they. Mother and boy in the rocking chair, Thinking of one who cannot be there, Breathing a hope that is half a prayer; Night and day, night and day. Here in my cell I must sit alone, Clothed in grey. Bars of iron and walls of stone Bid me stay. What of the world with its pomp and show? Baubles of nothing! This I know: Deep in my heart I miss them so Night and day, night and day. TO MY LITTLE SON I cannot lose the thought of you It haunts me like a little song, It blends with all I see or do Each day, the whole day long. The train, the lights, the engine's throb, And that one stinging memory: Your brave smile broken with a sob, Your face pressed close to me. Lips trembling far too much to speak; The arms that would not come undone; The kiss so salty on your cheek; The long, long trip begun. I could not miss you more it seemed, But now I don't know what to say. It's harder than I ever dreamed With you so far away. ESCAPED! (The boiler house whistle is blown "wildcat" when a prisoner makes a "getaway") A man has fled. . . .! We clutch the bars and wait; The corridors are empty, tense and still; A silver mist has dimmed the distant hill; The guards have gathered at the prison gate. Then suddenly the "wildcat" blares its hate Like some mad Moloch screaming for the kill, Shattering the air with terror loud and shrill, The dim, grey walls become articulate. Freedom, you say? Behold her altar here! In those far cities men can only find A vaster prison and a redder hell, O'ershadowed by new wings of greater fear. Brave fool, for such a world to leave behind The iron sanctuary of a cell! RETROSPECT The wall-girt distance undulates with heat; The buildings crouch in terror of the sun; Steel bars and stones, heat-tortured ton on ton, On which the noon's remorseless hammers beat. Alone I trudge the wide red-cobbled street: How long before this evil dream is done . . .? These strange mad stones I know them every one, Worn with the tread of oh, how many feet! And yet it seems that I have seen it all Before . . . I know not when . . . but there should be Blunt buildings near a cliff, as I recall; Bare rocks--a burning white--a gnarled dark tree . . . And looming clear above a sentried wall The foam-laced splendor of a warm blue sea . . .