My dear friend!
This letter for you
I’ve written down
here in this green jail
Where my word smells like grass.
And my dreams are getting wet in the rain.
Here, where the life and death
have no demarcation line.
Here, where the grass, the rain and flowers
die in front of your eyes
and are born again into a day
as if by magic.
I had three friends in Gotham,
And one of them is dead.
And one of them has palsy
And cannot leave his bed.
And now I know the other
Will soon desert me too,
And end his days in Sing Sing,
For something he will do.
Come, brothers all!
Shall we not wend
The blind-way of our prison-world
By sympathy entwined?
Shall we not make
The bleak way for each other's sake
Less rugged and unkind?
O let each throbbing heart repeat
The faint note of another's beat
To lift a chanson for the feet
That stumble down life's checkered street.
Believe me—when I say
That love like yours, at this belated hour,
Overwhelms me,—
Stills the fount of thought!
I move as one new-born—
And strange to swift transitions
As from my prison door
I gaze
Into a blinding sunlight!
When a hero fails of his purpose.
His acts are regarded as those of a villain and a robber.
Pursuing liberty, suddenly our plans are defeated.
In public we have been seized and pinioned and caged for many days.
How can we find exit from this place ?
Weeping, we seem as fools ; laughing, as rogues.
Alas ! for us ; we can only be silent.