FATE, the gaoler, flung us down together In a dungeon by the sea; Our ankles were sore fretted by the irons, We had nor file, nor key. Then of our hair we took the fine, soft tresses, And wove them carefully, And stooping down we swathed each other's fetters In webs of sympathy. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LOVELY CHANCE by SARA TEASDALE REMEMBERING NAT TURNER by STERLING ALLEN BROWN UP AT A VILLA - DOWN IN THE CITY by ROBERT BROWNING IMMORTALIA NE SPERES by ALCAEUS OF MYTILENE CLEVEDON VERSES: 1. HALLAM'S CHURCH by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN |