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These things I whisper.
For I see—in mind—
Thy caged cheek whiten
At the wail of wind,
That thin breast wasting; unto
Woe resigned.

Take comfort, listen!
Once we twain were free;
There was a Country—
Lost the memory . . .
Lay thy cold brow on hand,
And dream with me.

Awaits me torture,
I have smelt their rack;
From spectral groaning wheel
Have turned me back;
Thumbscrew and boot, and then—
The yawning sack.

Lean closer, then;
Lay palm on stony wall.
Let but thy ghost beneath
Thine eyelids call:
'Courage, my brother,' Nought
Can then appal.