129
THE WARDEN.
O feverish heart, that dost forever strain
Against forbidding bars that still withhold
Fulfilment of thy hope—thy dream untold,
Thy longing passion spends itself in vain!
No distant heights there are for thee to gain,
The azure deeps where white wings may unfold
In glimmering dawns or flaming sunset-gold
Unknown of thee shall evermore remain.
For by thee in thy prison Something stands—
Some higher shape of self, mayhap—with face
Compassionate as an angel's, but whose hands
Shall never set thee free—nay, yesternight
It stood long, silent, gazing into space,
Then made more fast the doors that bar thy flight.
