WITHIN my cell are singing sounds — a robin's call, afar. Within this gloom are glories white — a light of sun or star. Within this death-hole breathes the air of clover-fields a-hum. What rare and radiant riches to the prisoned spirit come! Within my cell glows ruddy wine — distilled of vineyards dear. Within this fear are lance and shield — what valor gives me cheer. Within defeat pride will not yield — a rebel heritage. And youth is armed with years forgot, to crush the force of age. Within my cell stands liberty — with many a flag of joy. Within this death is freedom born — its tyrant to destroy. Within this hush the bugles blow — to stir the hearts of men. And still I muse, in chains that chafe: "Will there be prisons then?" |