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. ...
LADY, in thy proud eyes
There is a weary look,
As if the spirit we know through them
Were daunted with rebuke
To think that the heart of man henceforth
Is read like a read book.
Lady, in thy lifted face
The solitude is sore;
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