Then die! Outside the prison gawk the crowds that you will see no more. A door slams shut behind you. Walk with turnkeys down a corridor smelling of lysol, through the gates to where a drunken sheriff waits. St. Nicholas who blessed your birth, whose hands are rich with gifts, will bear no further gifts to you on earth, Sacco, whose heart abounds in prayer neither to Pilate nor a saint whose earthly sons die innocent. And you that would not bow your knee to God, swarthy Bartholomew, no God will grant you liberty, nor Virgin intercede for you, nor bones of yours make sweet the plot where governors and judges rot. A doctor sneezes. A chaplain maps the routes to heaven. You mount the chair. A jailor buckles tight the straps like those which aviators wear. The surgeon makes a signal. Die! lost symbols of our liberty. Beyond the chair, beyond the bars of day and night, your path lies free; yours in an avenue of stars: march on, O dago Christs, while we march on to spread your name abroad like ashes in the winds of God. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RECESSIONAL (1) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON FOUND' (FOR A PICTURE) by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI LONG CHERISHED GRIEF by MIRIAM BARRANGER A MOTHER'S SONG by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH WHOM EARTH HAS TAUGHT: REVELATION by MARGARET PERKINS BRIGGS HONOUR'S MARTYR by EMILY JANE BRONTE THE WANDERER: 1. IN ITALY: WARNINGS by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 2. IN THE DRAWING ROOMS by EDWARD CARPENTER |