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.