Page:The Ballad of Reading Gaol (1904).djvu/20

 Upon that little tent of blue
 * Which prisoners call the sky,

And at every drifting cloud that went
 * With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain,
 * Within another ring,

And was wondering if the man had done
 * A great or little thing,

When a voice behind me whispered low,
 * “That fellow's got to swing.”

Dear Christ! the very prison walls
 * Suddenly seemed to reel,

And the sky above my head became
 * Like a casque of scorching steel;

And, though I was a soul in pain,
 * My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought
 * Quickened his step, and why

He looked upon the garish day
 * With such a wistful eye;

The man had killed the thing he loved,
 * And so he had to die.

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