Like grey-winged phantoms out of sullen skies
They flood our cells and seem to fashion there
I know not what dim landscapes of despair;
All day we feel them lurking in our eyes.
At night they fall like crosses, sombre-wise,
Upon the shameful uniforms we wear,
Upon the brow, the face, the hand, the hair;
And on each heart their shadow always lies.
O heart of mine, why throb with futile rage
And beat and beat against these hopeless bars?
For, though you break in life's last deadly swoon,
You cannot pierce beyond this iron cage
To see the pulsing splendor of the stars
Or feel the blue-green magic of the moon!