THE MONOLOGUE
ALAS, O Lovely One,
Imprisoned here,
I tap; thou answerest not,
I doubt, and fear.
Yet transparent as glass these walls,
If thou lean near.
Last dusk, at those high bars
There came, scarce-heard,
Claws, fluttering feathers.
Of deluded bird—
With one shrill, scared, faint note
The silence stirred.
Rests in that corner.
In puff of dust, a straw—
Vision of harvest-fields
I never saw,
Of strange green streams and hills,
Forbidden by law.
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