I know that tonight the wind is sighing, The soft August wind, over forest and moor; While I in a grave-like chill am lying On the damp black flags of my dungeon-floor. I know that the Harvest Moon is shining: She neither will wax nor wane for me; Yet I weary, weary with vain repining, One gleam of her heaven-bright face to see! For this constant darkness is wasting the gladness, Fast wasting the gladness of life away: It gathers up thoughts akin to madness That never would cloud the world of day. I chide with my soul-I bid it cherish The feelings it lived on when I was free, But shrinking it murmurs, "Let Memory perish,* Forget, for thy friends have forgotten thee!"* Alas, I did think that they were weeping Such tears as I weep-it is not so! Their careless young eyes are closed in sleeping; Their brows are unshadowed, undimmed by woe. Might I go to their beds, I'd rouse that slumber; My spirit should startle their rest, and tell How, hour after hour, I wakefully number Deep buried from light in my lonely cell! Yet, let them dream on, though dreary dreaming Would haunt my pillow if they were here, And I were laid warmly under the gleaming Of that guardian moon and her comrade star. Better that I, my own fate mourning, Should pine alone in the prison-gloom,* Than waken free on the summer morning And feel they were suffering this awful doom |