How might the goaded sufferer in this cell,
With nothing upon which his eyes might fall,
Except this vacant court, that dreary wall,
How might he live? I asked. Here doomed to dwell,
I marvel how at all he could repel
Thoughts which to madness and despair would call.
Enter this vault—the bare sight will appal
Thy spirit, even as mine within me fell,
Until I learned that wall not always there
Had stood—’twas something that this iron grate
Once had looked out upon a garden fair.
There must have been then here, to calm his brain,
Green leaves, and flowers, and sunshine—and a weight
Fell from me, and my heart revived again.