Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard,In a suit of shabby grey:His cricket cap was on his head,And his step seemed light and gay,But I never saw a man who lookedSo wistfully at the day.I never saw a man who lookedWith such a wistful eyeUpon that little tent of blueWhich prisoners call the sky,And at every wandering cloud that trailedIts ravelled fleeces by.He did not wring his hands, as doThose witless men who dareTo try to rear the changeling HopeIn the cave of black Despair:He only looked upon the sun,And drank the morning air.He did not wring his hands nor weep,Nor did he peek or pine,But he drank the air as though it heldSome healthful anodyne;With open mouth he drank the sunAs though it had been wine!And I and all the souls in pain,Who tramped the other ring,Forgot if we ourselves had doneA great or little thing,And watched with gaze of dull amazeThe man who had to swing.And strange it was to see him passWith a step so light and gay,And strange it was to see him lookSo wistfully at the day,And strange it was to think that heHad such a debt to pay.
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For oak and elm have pleasant leavesThat in the spring-time shoot:But grim to see is the gallows-tree,With its adder-bitten root,And, green or dry, a man must dieBefore it bears its fruit!The loftiest place is that seat of graceFor which all worldlings try:But who would stand in hempen bandUpon a scaffold high,And through a murderer's collar takeHis last look at the sky?It is sweet to dance to violinsWhen Love and Life are fair:To dance to flutes, to dance to lutesIs delicate and rare:But it is not sweet with nimble feetTo dance upon the air!So with curious eyes and sick surmiseWe watched him day by day,And wondered if each one of usWould end the self-same way,For none can tell to what red HellHis sightless soul may stray.
