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 not 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.