Puny as a breath, a soul, The turnkey's orphan girl Rambles about the prison-hole— Innocence with golden curl. She's just five years old; and pale Her shoulders under her rags appear; Being free, she fills the jail With bursts of laughter and cheer. One old fellow serving time Makes toys her happy fingers seize; Youthful vice and elder crime Hold her on their knees. And, recalling the mandragora Where the gallows fronts the sky, More bewitching still are the ways of her The days a man must die. |