All Rooms Ought To Look

Late February Days; And Now, At Last, Might You Have Thought That Winter's Woe Was Past; So Fair The Sky Was And So Soft The Air.

In Prison Wearily, Drearily, Half The Day Long, Flap The Great Banners High Over The Stone; Strangely And Eerily Sounds The Wind's Song, Bending The Banner-poles. While, All Alone, Watching The Loophole's Spark, Lie I, With Life All Dark, Feet Tethered, Hands Fettered Fast To The Stone, The Grim Walls, Square Lettered With Prisoned Men's Groan. Still Strain The Banner-poles Through The Wind's Song, Westward The Banner Rolls Over My Wrong.

Not On One Strand Are All Life's Jewels Strung.

To Happy Folkall Heaviest Words No More Of Meaning Bearthan Far-off Bells Saddening The Summer Air.

Free Men Must Live Simple Lives And Have Simple Pleasures.