Poems (Piatt)/Volume 2/In Her Prison

by Sarah Piatt

IN HER PRISON.

Watcher with the cruel watching of the stars,
Barred by the powers of darkness with their bars:

Oh! those that see me see as far as space,
And these that hold me circle every place.

My feet are tangled in the chains of Time,
My hands cannot take hold on air and climb.

And I am dumb—because the heavens are high,
And who can hope to scale them with a cry?

The floor is grey with mould on which I tread,
Dust gathers in the silence overhead.

With bitter bread and water hardly sweet
My jailer mocks me, saying: "Drink and eat."

Yet somewhere there are carpets soft and rare,
And lights and laughter in the world—somewhere?

And somewhere there are golden cups of wine,
And snowy cakes where combs of honey shine.

Through other lips I taste the wine, and touch
Through other feet the carpets—that is much.

I see through other eyes the lights, and hear
The laughter clearly, not with mine own ear.

My grating gathers me a drop of dew;
Some piteous blossom sends its sweetness through.

Some tender bird, far on a sunny tree,
Breaks his wild song and gives one half to me.

The palace music leaves the palace guest,
And falls to dreaming here upon my breast.

Yet, spite of all, sometimes my Prison shakes
With the great yearning of a heart that aches.

Oh! that its lonesome roof would fall to-night,
And show me for an instant—something White!