As a dare grey sky scanted in a dull cage,
Man’s mounting spirit in his bone-house, mean house, dwells in with looking for her heart
That bird beyond the remembering he will never be free
This in drudgery, day laboring out life’s age for love.
Though aloft on turf or perch or poor low stage for her life so crow
Yet both drop deadly sometimes in their cells
Or writing their barriers in bursts of fear or rage.
Not that the sweet story, needs no rest to cry
Why, hear him, hear him babble and drop him down to his worst,
But for your worst, so prison.
Man’s spirit will be flesh bound, when found at best.
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