The Ballad of Reading Gaol

I

II

III

IV

There is no chapel on the day

      On which they hang a man:

The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,

      Or his face is far too wan,

Or there is that written in his eyes

      Which none should look upon.

So they kept us close till nigh on noon,

      And then they rang the bell,

And the Warders with their jingling keys

      Opened each listening cell,

And down the iron stair we tramped,

      Each from his separate Hell.

Out into God's sweet air we went,

      But not in wonted way,

For this man's face was white with fear,

      And that man's face was grey,

And I never saw sad men who looked

      So wistfully at the day.

I never saw sad men who looked

      With such a wistful eye

Upon that little tent of blue

      We prisoners called the sky,

And at every careless cloud that passed

      In happy freedom by.

But there were those amongst us all

      Who walked with downcast head,

And knew that, had each got his due,

      They should have died instead:

He had but killed a thing that lived,

      Whilst they had killed the dead.

For he who sins a second time

      Wakes a dead soul to pain,

And draws it from its spotted shroud,

      And makes it bleed again,

And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,

      And makes it bleed in vain!...... Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb

      With crooked arrows starred,

Silently we went round and round

      The slippery asphalte yard;

Silently we went round and round,

      And no man spoke a word.

Silently we went round and round,

      And through each hollow mind

The Memory of dreadful things

      Rushed like a dreadful wind,

And Horror stalked before each man,

      And Terror crept behind....... The Warders strutted up and down,

      And kept their herd of brutes,

Their uniforms were spick and span,

      And they wore their Sunday suits,

But we knew the work they had been at,

      By the quicklime on their boots.

For where a grave had opened wide,

      There was no grave at all:

Only a stretch of mud and sand

      By the hideous prison-wall,

And a little heap of burning lime,

      That the man should have his pall.

For he has a pall, this wretched man,

      Such as few men can claim:

Deep down below a prison-yard,

      Naked for greater shame,

He lies, with fetters on each foot,

      Wrapt in a sheet of flame!

And all the while the burning lime

      Eats flesh and bone away,

It eats the brittle bone by night,

      And the soft flesh by day,

It eats the flesh and bone by turns,

      But it eats the heart alway....... For three long years they will not sow

      Or root or seedling there:

For three long years the unblessed spot

      Will sterile be and bare,

And look upon the wondering sky

      With unreproachful stare.

They think a murderer's heart would taint

      Each simple seed they sow.

It is not true! God's kindly earth

      Is kindlier than men know,

And the red rose would but blow more red,

      The white rose whiter blow.

Out of his mouth a red, red rose!

      Out of his heart a white!

For who can say by what strange way,

      Christ brings His will to light,

Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore

      Bloomed in the great Pope's sight?

But neither milk-white rose nor red

      May bloom in prison air;

The shard, the pebble, and the flint,

      Are what they give us there:

For flowers have been known to heal

      A common man's despair.

So never will wine-red rose or white,

      Petal by petal, fall

On that stretch of mud and sand that lies

      By the hideous prison-wall,

To tell the men who tramp the yard

      That God's Son died for all....... Yet though the hideous prison-wall

      Still hems him round and round,

And a spirit may not walk by night

      That is with fetters bound,

And a spirit may but weep that lies

      In such unholy ground,

He is at peace—this wretched man—

      At peace, or will be soon:

There is no thing to make him mad,

      Nor does Terror walk at noon,

For the lampless Earth in which he lies

      Has neither Sun nor Moon.

They hanged him as a beast is hanged:

      They did not even toll

A requiem that might have brought

      Rest to his startled soul,

But hurriedly they took him out,

      And hid him in a hole.

They stripped him of his canvas clothes,

      And gave him to the flies:

They mocked the swollen purple throat,

      And the stark and staring eyes:

And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud

      In which their convict lies.

The Chaplain would not kneel to pray

      By his dishonoured grave:

Nor mark it with that blessed Cross

      That Christ for sinners gave,

Because the man was one of those

      Whom Christ came down to save.

Yet all is well; he has but passed

      To life's appointed bourne:

And alien tears will fill for him

      Pity's long-broken urn,

For his mourners will be outcast men,

V

I know not whether Laws be right,

      Or whether Laws be wrong;

All that we know who lie in gaol

      Is that the wall is strong;

And that each day is like a year,

      A year whose days are long.

But this I know, that every Law

      That men have made for Man,

Since first Man took his brother's life,

      And the sad world began,

But straws the wheat and saves the chaff

      With a most evil fan.

This too I know—and wise it were

      If each could know the same—

That every prison that men build

      Is built with bricks of shame,

And bound with bars lest Christ should see

      How men their brothers maim.

With bars they blur the gracious moon,

      And blind the goodly sun:

And they do well to hide their Hell,

      For in it things are done

That Son of God nor son of Man

      Ever should look upon!...... The vilest deeds like poison weeds,

      Bloom well in prison-air;

It is only what is good in Man

      That wastes and withers there:

Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,

      And the Warder is Despair.

For they starve the little frightened child

      Till it weeps both night and day:

And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,

      And gibe the old and gray,

And some grow mad, and all grow bad,

      And none a word may say.

Each narrow cell in which we dwell

      Is a foul and dark latrine,

And the fetid breath of living Death

      Chokes up each grated screen,

And all, but Lust, is turned to dust

      In Humanity's machine.

The brackish water that we drink

      Creeps with a loathsome slime,

And the bitter bread they weigh in scales

      Is full of chalk and lime,

And Sleep will not lie down, but walks

      Wild-eyed, and cries to Time....... But though lean Hunger and green Thirst

      Like asp with adder fight,

We have little care of prison fare,

      For what chills and kills outright

Is that every stone one lifts by day

      Becomes one's heart by night.

With midnight always in one's heart,

      And twilight in one's cell,

We turn the crank, or tear the rope,

      Each in his separate Hell,

And the silence is more awful far

      Than the sound of a brazen bell.

And never a human voice comes near

      To speak a gentle word:

And the eye that watches through the door

      Is pitiless and hard:

And by all forgot, we rot and rot,

      With soul and body marred.

And thus we rust Life's iron chain

      Degraded and alone:

And some men curse, and some men weep,

      And some men make no moan:

But God's eternal Laws are kind

      And break the heart of stone....... And every human heart that breaks,

      In prison-cell or yard,

Is as that broken box that gave

      Its treasure to the Lord,

And filled the unclean leper's house

      With the scent of costliest nard.

Ah! happy they whose hearts can break

      And peace of pardon win!

How else may man make straight his plan

      And cleanse his soul from Sin?

How else but through a broken heart

      May Lord Christ enter in?...... And he of the swollen purple throat,

      And the stark and staring eyes,

Waits for the holy hands that took

      The Thief to Paradise;

And a broken and a contrite heart

      The Lord will not despise.

The man in red who reads the Law

      Gave him three weeks of life,

Three little weeks in which to heal

      His soul of his soul's strife,

And cleanse from every blot of blood

      The hand that held the knife.

And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,

      The hand that held the steel:

For only blood can wipe out blood,

      And only tears can heal:

And the crimson stain that was of Cain

VI

In Reading gaol by Reading town

      There is a pit of shame,

And in it lies a wretched man

      Eaten by teeth of flame,

In a burning winding-sheet he lies,

      And his grave has got no name.

And there, till Christ call forth the dead,

      In silence let him lie:

No need to waste the foolish tear,

      Or heave the windy sigh:

The man had killed the thing he loved,

      And so he had to die.

And all men kill the thing they love,

      By all let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

      Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

      The brave man with a sword!