Blue sky, gray arches, and white, white cloud;
Gray eyes, white hands, and a free, white crowd
Of wheeling, whirling, fluttering things—
Pink feet, bright feathers, and wide, warm wings.
Thousands of pigeons all the year
Fly in and out of the arches here.
What prisoned hands have torn at the stone
Where your soft hand lies—oh my heart!—alone?
What prisoned eyes have grown blind with tears
To see what we see after all these years—
The free, broad river go smoothly by
And the free, blithe birds 'neath the free, blue sky?
And now—O Time, how you work your will!
—The pitiless walls are standing still,
But the wall-flowers blossom on every ledge,
And the wild rose garlands the walls' sheer edge,
And where once the imprisoned heart beat low,
The beautiful pigeons fly to and fro!
In the sad, stern arches they build and pair,
As happy as dreams and as free as air,
And sorrow and longing and life-long pain
Man brings not into these walls again;
And yet—O my love, with the face of flowers—
What do we bring in these hearts of ours?