Of all been otherwise arraigned.Each with bewilderment unfeignedStared hard to see against the wallThe hunted boy stand slim and tall;Dream-born, it seemed, with just a traceOf weariness upon his face,He stood as if evolved from air;As if always he had stood there. . . .What blew the torches' feeble flareTo such a soaring fury now?Each hand went up to fend each brow,Save his; he and the light were one,A man by night clad with the sun.By form and feature, bearing, name,I knew this man. He was the sameWhom I had thrust, a minute past,Behind a door,—and made it fast.Knit flesh and bone, had like a thong,Bound us as one our whole life long,But in the presence of this throng,He seemed one I had never known.Never such tragic beauty shoneAs this on any face before.It pared the heart straight to the core.It is the lustre dying lends,I thought, to make some brief amendsTo life so wantonly cut down.
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