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[ti:The Ballad of Reading Gaol] |
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[ar:Psychotropic] |
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[al:] |
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He did not wear his scarlet coat, |
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For blood and wine are red, |
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And blood and wine were on his hands |
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When they found him with the dead, |
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The poor dead woman whom he loved, |
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And murdered in her bed. |
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He walked amongst the Trial Men |
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In a suit of shabby grey; |
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A cricket cap was on his head, |
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And his step seemed light and gay; |
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But I never saw a man who looked |
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So wistfully at the day. |
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I never saw a man who looked |
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With such a wistful eye |
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Upon that little tent of blue |
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Which prisoners call the sky, |
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And at every drifting cloud that went |
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With sails of silver by. |
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I walked, with other souls in pain, |
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Within another ring, |
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And was wondering if the man had done |
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A great or little thing, |
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When a voice behind me whispered low, |
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"That fellow's got to swing." |
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Dear Christ! the very prison walls |
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Suddenly seemed to reel, |
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And the sky above my head became |
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Like a casque of scorching steel; |
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And, though I was a soul in pain, |
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My pain I could not feel. |
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I only knew what hunted thought |
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Quickened his step, and why |
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He looked upon the garish day |
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With such a wistful eye; |
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The man had killed the thing he loved |
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And so he had to die. |
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|
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Yet each man kills the thing he loves |
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By each let this be heard, |
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Some do it with a bitter look, |
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Some with a flattering word, |
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The coward does it with a kiss, |
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The brave man with a sword! |
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Some kill their love when they are young, |
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And some when they are old; |
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Some strangle with the hands of Lust, |
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Some with the hands of Gold: |
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The kindest use a knife, because |
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The dead so soon grow cold. |
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Some love too little, some too long, |
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Some sell, and others buy; |
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Some do the deed with many tears, |
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And some without a sigh: |
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For each man kills the thing he loves, |
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Yet each man does not die. |
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He does not die a death of shame |
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On a day of dark disgrace, |
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Nor have a noose about his neck, |
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Nor a cloth upon his face, |
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Nor drop feet foremost through the floor |
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Into an empty place |
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He does not sit with silent men |
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Who watch him night and day; |
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Who watch him when he tries to weep, |
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And when he tries to pray; |
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Who watch him lest himself should rob |
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The prison of its prey. |
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He does not wake at dawn to see |
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Dread figures throng his room, |
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The shivering Chaplain robed in white, |
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The Sheriff stern with gloom, |
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And the Governor all in shiny black, |
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With the yellow face of Doom. |
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He does not rise in piteous haste |
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To put on convict-clothes, |
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While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes |
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Each new and nerve-twitched pose, |
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Fingering a watch whose little ticks |
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Are like horrible hammer-blows. |
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He does not know that sickening thirst |
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That sands one's throat, before |
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The hangman with his gardener's gloves |
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Slips through the padded door, |
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And binds one with three leathern thongs, |
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That the throat may thirst no more. |
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He does not bend his head to hear |
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The Burial Office read, |
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Nor, while the terror of his soul |
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Tells him he is not dead, |
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Cross his own coffin, as he moves |
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Into the hideous shed. |
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He does not stare upon the air |
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Through a little roof of glass; |
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He does not pray with lips of clay |
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For his agony to pass; |
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Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek |
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The kiss of Caiaphas. |
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There is no chapel on the day |
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On which they hang a man: |
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The Chaplain's heart is far too sick, |
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Or his face is far too wan, |
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Or there is that written in his eyes |
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Which none should look upon. |
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So they kept us close till nigh on noon, |
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And then they rang the bell, |
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And the Warders with their jingling keys |
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Opened each listening cell, |
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And down the iron stair we tramped, |
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Each from his separate Hell. |
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Out into God's sweet air we went, |
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But not in wonted way, |
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For this man's face was white with fear, |
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And that man's face was grey, |
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And I never saw sad men who looked |
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So wistfully at the day. |
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The Warders strutted up and down, |
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And watched their herd of brutes, |
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Their uniforms were spick and span, |
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And they wore their Sunday suits, |
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But we knew the work they had been at |
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By the quicklime on their boots. |
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For where a grave had opened wide, |
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There was no grave at all: |
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Only a stretch of mud and sand |
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By the hideous prison-wall, |
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And a little heap of burning lime, |
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That the man should have his pall. |
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For he has a pall, this wretched man, |
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Such as few men can claim: |
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Deep down below a prison-yard, |
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Naked for greater shame, |
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He lies, with fetters on each foot, |
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Wrapt in a sheet of flame! |
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And all the while the burning lime |
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Eats flesh and bone away, |
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It eats the brittle bone by night, |
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And the soft flesh by the day, |
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It eats the flesh and bones by turns, |
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But it eats the heart alway. |
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In Reading gaol by Reading town |
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There is a pit of shame, |
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And in it lies a wretched man |
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Eaten by teeth of flame, |
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In burning winding-sheet he lies, |
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And his grave has got no name. |
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And there, till Christ call forth the dead, |
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In silence let him lie: |
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No need to waste the foolish tear, |
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Or heave the windy sigh: |
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The man had killed the thing he loved, |
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And so he had to die. |
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|
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And all men kill the thing they love, |
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By all let this be heard, |
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Some do it with a bitter look, |
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Some with a flattering word, |
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The coward does it with a kiss, |
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The brave man with a sword! |
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