Thus about your lawn I listened till the stars had ceased to burn, But when I saw the imminence of the dawn And heard our bird cry, I could stand no more, My heart broke and I fled and wandered on Down through the valley by the river's shore. For when the bird cried, did you wake with him? Did you two gaze as we had gazed before Upon that blissful morning? I was dim Of thought and spirit, by the river lay Watching the swallows over the water skim, And plucking leaves from weeds to turn or stay The madness of my life's futility, Grown blank as that terrific dawn--till day Flooded upon me, noon came, what should be? Where should I go? What prison chains could rest So heavily on the spirit, as that free, But vast and ruined world? O arrowed breast Of me, your Tasso! And you came and drew The arrows out which kept the blood repressed, And let my wounds the freer bleed: 'Twas you By afternoon who walked upon an arm More lordly than mine is. You stopped nor knew, I saw him take your body lithe and warm Close to his breast, yes, even where we had stood Upon our day, embraced--feed on the charm Of widened eyes and swiftly coursing blood. I watched you walk away and disappear In the deep verdure of the river wood, Too faint to rise and fly, crushed by the fear Of madness, sudden death! This was my dream, From which I woke and saw again the sheer Walls of my prison, which no longer seem The agony they did, even though the cell Is the hard penalty and the cursed extreme Hate in return for love. But oh you hell, You boundless earth to wander in and brood-- Great prison house of grief in which to dwell, Remembering love forgotten, pride subdued, And love desired and found and lost again. That is the prison which no fortitude Can suffer, and the never dying pain From which the spacious luring of the earth Tempts flight for spirit freedom, but in vain! Ah Leonora! Even from our birth We build our prisons! What are walls like these Beside the walls of memory, or the dearth Of hope in all this life, the agonies Of spiritual chains and gloom? I suffer less, Imprisoned thus, than if the memories Of love bestowed and love betrayed should press Round my unresting steps. And I send up To heaven thanks that spared that bitterness, That garden of the soul's reluctant cup! THE CHRISTIAN STATESMAN