JEANNE to dry bread and the dark room consigned For some misdeed: I to my duty blind Visit the prisoner--traitor that I am! And in the dark, slip her a pot of jam. Those in my realm, on whose authority Depends the welfare of society, Were outraged. Jeanne's soft little voice arose, 'I'll put no more my thumb up to my nose; No more I'll let the puss my fingers tear.' But they all cry, 'That child is well aware How weak and mean you are. She knows of old You always take to laughing when we scold; No government can stand; at every hour Rule you upset. There is an end of power. No law exist. Nought keeps the child in bound; You ruin all.' I bow my head to ground, And say, 'Your grievous charge I can't oppose. I'm wrong. Yes, by indulgences like those The people's ruin has been always wrought; Put me upon dry bread.' 'I'm sure we ought, And will!' Then Jeanne, from her dark corner, cries, But low to me, raising her beautecus eyes (Love gives the lion's courage to the lamb!), 'And I will go and bring you pots of jam!' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BALINESE WITCH DOCTOR by KAREN SWENSON THE LOCKLESS DOOR by ROBERT FROST DEATH IN THE KITCHEN by THOMAS HOOD THE WORLD by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE MORAL FABLES: THE SHEEP AND THE DOG by AESOP THE LETTER; EDWARD ROWLAND SILL, DIED FEBRUARY 27, 1887 by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH IN EMULATION OF MR. COWLEYS POEM CALL'D THE MOTTO by MARY ASTELL |