Part IV

There is no chapel on the dayOn which they hang a man:The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,Or his face is far too wan,Or there is that written in his eyesWhich none should look upon.

So they kept us close till nigh on noon,And then they rang the bell,And the warders with their jingling keysOpened each listening cell,And down the iron stair we tramped,Each from his separate Hell.

Out into God's sweet air we went,But not in wonted way,For this man's face was white with fear,And that man's face was gray,And I never saw sad men who lookedSo wistfully at the day.

I never saw sad men who lookedWith such a wistful eyeUpon that little tent of blueWe prisoners called the sky,And at every happy cloud that passedIn such strange freedom by.

But there were those amongst us allWho walked with downcast head,And knew that, had each got his due,They should have died instead:He had but killed a thing that lived,Whilst they had killed the dead.

For he who sins a second timeWakes a dead soul to pain,And draws it from its spotted shroudAnd makes it bleed again,And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,And makes it bleed in vain!

Like ape or clown, in monstrous garbWith crooked arrows starred,Silently we went round and roundThe slippery asphalte yard;Silently we went round and round,And no man spoke a word.

Silently we went round and round,And through each hollow mindThe Memory of dreadful thingsRushed like a dreadful wind,And Horror stalked before each man,And Terror crept behind.

The warders strutted up and down,And watched their herd of brutes,Their uniforms were spick and span,And they wore their Sunday suits,But we knew the work they had been at,By the quicklime on their boots.

For where a grave had opened wide,There was no grave at all:Only a stretch of mud and sandBy the hideous prison-wall,And a little heap of burning lime,That the man should have his pall.

For he has a pall, this wretched man,Such as few men can claim:Deep down below a prison-yard,Naked, for greater shame,He lies, with fetters on each foot,Wrapt in a sheet of flame!

And all the while the burning limeEats flesh and bone away,It eats the brittle bones by night,And the soft flesh by day,It eats the flesh and bone by turns,But it eats the heart alway.

For three long years they will not sowOr root or seedling there:For three long years the unblessed spotWill sterile be and bare,And look upon the wondering skyWith unreproachful stare.

They think a murderer's heart would taintEach simple seed they sow.It is not true! God's kindly earthIs kindlier than men know,And the red rose would but glow more red,The white rose whiter blow.

Out of his mouth a red, red rose!Out of his heart a white!For who can say by what strange way,Christ brings His will to light,Since the barren staff the pilgrim boreBloomed in the great Pope's sight?

But neither milk-white rose nor redMay bloom in prison air;The shard, the pebble, and the flint,Are what they give us there:For flowers have been known to healA common man's despair.

So never will wine-red rose or white,Petal by petal, fallOn that stretch of mud and sand that liesBy the hideous prison-wall,To tell the men who tramp the yardThat God's Son died for all.

Yet though the hideous prison-wallStill hems him round and round,And a spirit may not walk by nightThat is with fetters bound,And a spirit may but weep that liesIn such unholy ground,

He is at peace- this wretched man-At peace, or will be soon:There is no thing to make him mad,Nor does Terror walk at noon,For the lampless Earth in which he liesHas neither Sun nor Moon.

They hanged him as a beast is hanged:They did not even tollA requiem that might have broughtRest to his startled soul,But hurriedly they took him out,And hid him in a hole.

The warders stripped him of his clothes,And gave him to the flies:They mocked the swollen purple throat,And the stark and staring eyes:And with laughter loud they heaped the shroudIn which the convict lies.

The Chaplain would not kneel to prayBy his dishonoured grave:Nor mark it with that blessed CrossThat Christ for sinners gave,Because the man was one of thoseWhom Christ came down to save.

Yet all is well; he has but passedTo Life's appointed bourne:And alien tears will fill for himPity's long-broken urn,For his mourners be outcast men,And outcasts always mourn.