Michael Robartes and the Dancer/On a Political Prisoner
ON A POLITICAL PRISONERShe that but little patience knew,From childhood on, had now so muchA grey gull lost its fear and flewDown to her cell and there alit,And there endured her fingers touchAnd from her fingers ate its bit.
Did she in touching that lone wingRecall the years before her mindBecame a bitter, an abstract thing,Her thought some popular enmity:Blind and leader of the blindDrinking the foul ditch where they lie?
When long ago I saw her rideUnder Ben Bulban to the meet,The beauty of her country-sideWith all youth’s lonely wildness stirred,She seemed to have grown clean and sweetLike any rock-bred, sea-borne bird:
Sea-borne, or balanced on the airWhen first it sprang out of the nestUpon some lofty rock to stareUpon the cloudy canopy,While under its storm-beaten breastCried out the hollows of the sea.