The walls shriek with the eyes
of mangled pigeons, the weasel's glittering teeth,
the aimless thrashing of the terrified.
The heart clings to the prisoner's hand. ...
Nay, dear one, ask me not to leave thee yet.
Let me a little longer hold thy hand.
Too soon it is to bid me to forget
The joys I was so late to understand.
The future holds but a blank face for me,
The past is all confused with tears and grey,
But the sweet present, while thy smiles I see,
Is perfect sunlight, an unclouded day.
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