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42
XXXVIII.
[Am I not bound? There scarcely lives on earth]
Am I not bound? There scarcely lives on earthA life more triply fettered than I lead,
A toiler to the galley chained, my meed
Man's idiot laughter and fate's furial mirth.
I sit down in the ashes on life's hearth,
And to the cinders spread my frozen feet:
But, preying on my heart, there is a heat
That makes a garden in the midst of dearth;
But, kindling in my breast, there is a hope,
A deathless courage, an immortal love,
That shall not leave me, till into the dust,
The charred black dust, in which I daily grope
And gnaw for comfort, and find food enough,
My life too crumbles in an iron rust.
March 21st, 1886.
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