Walt Whitman

LEAVES OF GRASS
(1891-92 issue)
complete book, e-book

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2

 The sun was low in the west one winter day,
 When down a narrow aisle amid the thieves and outlaws of the land,
 (There by the hundreds seated, sear-faced murderers, wily counterfeiters,
 Gather'd to Sunday church in prison walls, the keepers round,
 Plenteous, well-armed, watching with vigilant eyes,)
 Calmly a lady walk'd holding a little innocent child by either hand,
 Whom seating on their stools beside her on the platform,
 She, first preluding with the instrument a low and musical prelude,
 In voice surpassing all, sang forth a quaint old hymn.
 
 A soul confined by bars and bands,
 Cries, help! O help! and wrings her hands,
 Blinded her eyes, bleeding her breast,
 Nor pardon finds, nor balm of rest.
 
 Ceaseless she paces to and fro,
 O heart-sick days! O nights of woe!
 Nor hand of friend, nor loving face,
 Nor favor comes, nor word of grace.
 
 It was not I that sinn'd the sin,
 The ruthless body dragg'd me in;
 Though long I strove courageously,
 The body was too much for me.
 
 Dear prison'd soul bear up a space,
 For soon or late the certain grace;
 To set thee free and bear thee home,
 The heavenly pardoner death shall come.
 
 Convict no more, nor shame, nor dole!
 Depart--a God-enfranchis'd soul!