I dug a square hole With midnight toil, And buried my soul In garden soil, Under the roots Where the ants creep, And the pale shoots Waken from sleep. And deep in mire, With spade all muddy, I buried the fire That is my body, Where swampfires hung Within the dark, With adder's tongue And yew to mark. And where sky clings Low to a hill, I buried my wings, Folded and still, Within a narrow Trodden spot, Under the yarrow And melilot. Where silence is, And no feet pass Eternities Of tufted grass, As long miles roll Into a plain, In a jagged hole I buried my brain. In a toil for bread I buried my youth; Under beauty dead I buried my truth, With Solomon And his loves forgotten, And Helen gone, And Caesar rotten. And then my tongue, Half-severed, spoke Flatly among The world's pale folk: "I am one of you: I am not as high As the low dew That knows no sky; "I am less than one: I am as low As any man Can ever go. Then take me in In the crawling herd Of other men!" This was my word. They took me in. I was no higher Than buried men Under the mire; I was as gay With golden mirth As a somber day Beneath the earth. They took me in -- And then they found My secret sin Still underground: For out of sight And out of knowing My body white Was lifting, growing; My supple brain Was clouding out, My youth again Woke like a shout, My wings were longer, My truth was breathing, My soul, grown stronger, Was waking, wreathing Its melody To a sword and a spear! And on this tree They have nailed me here; Above this narrow Trodden spot, Over the yarrow And melilot. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 22 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING A FIT OF RHYME AGAINST RHYME [OR, RIME] by BEN JONSON THE SONG OF HIAWATHA: PICTURE-WRITING by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THAT HOLY THING by GEORGE MACDONALD INVITATION by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS CITY AND VILLAGE by ALEXANDER ANDERSON |