Page:The cry for justice - an anthology of the literature of social protest. - (IA cryforjusticea00sinc).pdf/170

 There is no chapel on the day On 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 eyes Which 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 keys Opened each listening cell, And down the iron stairs 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 grey, And I never saw sad men who looked So wistfully at the day.

I never saw sad men who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue We prisoners call the sky, And at every careless cloud that passed In happy freedom by

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