I dream I am a child once more. Not so;
I am just what I am: a man in prison—
(Damn them! I'm innocent of what they swore
And proved—with cant, and well-paid perjury;
Tho' other crimes, they know not of, I did)—
But suddenly my soul is pure as yours;
My thought as clean; my spirit is as free
As any man's, or any purest woman's.
I think as justly, as for instance, sir,
You think; as circumspectly, wisely, freely,
As does my jolly keeper, or the smith
Who enters once a day to try the bars
That shut my body out from freedom! Not
My soul. Why, this my soul has thoughts that strike
Into the very hights and depths of Heaven.
You'll think it passing strange, good friend, no doubt.
'T is strange; but here s a further mystery:
Think you that in some other living state
After what we call death,—or in this life,—
The thinking part of us we name the soul
Can ever get away from its old self;
Can wash the earth all off from it, that so
It really will be, what I sometimes seem—
As sinless as a little child at birth,
With all a woman's love for all things pure,
And all a grown man's strength to do the right?
THE CONDEMNED
Thou art not fit to die?—Why not?
The fairest body ripes to rot.
Thy soul? O, why not let it go
Free from the flesh that drags it low!
To die! Poor wretch, do not deceive
Thyself—who art not fit to live.
