For three long years they will not sowOr root or seedling there:For three long years the unblessed spotWill sterile be and bare,And look upon the wondering skyWith unreproachful stare.They think a murderer's heart would taintEach simple seed they sow.It is not true! God's kindly earthIs kindlier than men know,And the red rose would but blow more red,The white rose whiter blow.Out of his mouth a red, red rose!Out of his heart a white!For who can say by what strange way,Christ brings his will to light,Since the barren staff the pilgrim boreBloomed in the great Pope's sight?But neither milk-white rose nor redMay bloom in prison air;The shard, the pebble, and the flint,Are what they give us there:For flowers have been known to healA common man's despair.So never will wine-red rose or white,Petal by petal, fallOn that stretch of mud and sand that liesBy the hideous prison-wall,To tell the men who tramp the yardThat God's Son died for all.
* * *
Yet though the hideous prison-wallStill hems him round and round,And a spirit man not walk by nightThat is with fetters bound,And a spirit may not weep that liesIn such unholy ground,He is at peace — this wretched man—At peace, or will be soon:There is no thing to make him mad,Nor does Terror walk at noon,For the lampless Earth in which he liesHas neither Sun nor Moon.
* * *
They hanged him as a beast is hanged:They did not even tollA requiem that might have broughtRest to his startled soul,But hurriedly they took him out,And hid him in a hole.They stripped him of his canvas clothes,And gave him to the flies;They mocked the swollen purple throatAnd the stark and staring eyes:And with laughter loud they heaped the shroudIn which their convict lies.
