Saturday, June 16, 2012

Enoch Powell: First Poems: XXIII) The Convict

XXIII) The Convict

So soon the summer comes again,
And still I languish here,
My ankle fastened with the chain
I wore last year.

Now green and golden stand the trees
That other folk may see;
And warm and scented springs the breeze
To touch the free.

On hills I shall not climb, the haze
Of evening lingers red,
And grey at morning gleam the ways
I shall not tread.

For all the merry summer through,
As dead men’s bones,
I still shall sit and penance do,
A-breaking stones.

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