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,