The Prisoner
I t the dismal time by months and years
Since last I felt the green sward under foot,
And the great breath of all things summer-
Met mine upon my lips. h appears
As strao me as dreams of distant spheres
Or thoughts of Heaven we weep at. Natures lute
Sounds on, behind this door so closely shut,
A strange wild music to the prisoners ears,
Dilated by the distaill the brain
Grows dim with fancies which it feels too
While ever, with a visionary pain,
Past the precluded senses, sweep and Rhine
Streams, forests, glades, and many a golden train
Of sunlit hills transfigured to Divine.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning