Mad Song

Grey gaolers are my griefs
That will not let me free;
The bitterness of tears
Is warder unto me.

I may not leap or run;
I may nor laugh nor sing.
"Thy cell is small," they say,
"Be still thou captived thing."

But in the dusk of the night,
Too sudden-swift to see,
Closing and ivory gates
Are refuge unto me.

My griefs, my tears must watch,
And cold the watch they keep;
They whisper, whisper there—
I hear them in my sleep.

They know that I must come,
And patient watch they keep,
Whispering, shivering there,
Till I come back from sleep.

But in the dark of a night,
Too dark for them to see,
The refuge of black gates
Will open unto me.

Whisper up there in the dark…
Shiver by bleak winds stung…
My dead lips laugh to hear
How long you wait…how long!

Grey gaolers are my griefs
That will not let me free;
The bitterness of tears
Is warder unto me.