 | Claribel and Other Poems |  |
204
THE SONG OF THE PAUPER
Spring cometh to the world;
Spring cometh not to me:
There is no Spring in the poor-house yard,
For the prison'd Misery.
The fond Spring whispereth:
The merry birds are singing;
The chime o' the flowers is ringing:—
But mine is prison breath.
Spring cometh not to me:
There is no Spring in the poor-house yard,
For the prison'd Misery.
The fond Spring whispereth:
The merry birds are singing;
The chime o' the flowers is ringing:—
But mine is prison breath.
Spring shouteth jubilee:
The pauper may not fare
From the closeness of his winter ward
Into the fragrant air.
Spring loosens the frozen earth;
The forests their free arms are flinging
Abroad: to me are clinging
Death and the rule of dearth.
The pauper may not fare
From the closeness of his winter ward
Into the fragrant air.
Spring loosens the frozen earth;
The forests their free arms are flinging
Abroad: to me are clinging
Death and the rule of dearth.
207
Spring smileth: the free birds mate;
The free flower blossometh:—
The home of the pauper is desolate;
The grave-weed is his wreath.
There is no smile for me;
No child to my life is clinging;
Though the buds on the moors are springing,
I have no family.
The free flower blossometh:—
The home of the pauper is desolate;
The grave-weed is his wreath.
There is no smile for me;
No child to my life is clinging;
Though the buds on the moors are springing,
I have no family.
Spring cometh to the world;
Spring giveth life to all:
O, when shall the Spring of poor Human-kind
Proclaim its festival?
The fond Spring whispereth:
The merry birds are singing;
The chime o' the flowers is ringing:—
But mine is prison breath.
Spring giveth life to all:
O, when shall the Spring of poor Human-kind
Proclaim its festival?
The fond Spring whispereth:
The merry birds are singing;
The chime o' the flowers is ringing:—
But mine is prison breath.
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