I sit and think of how my life has been
To me, and sadly take into account
That this grey cell is all I have seen
For seven years; and I begin to mount
The wooden stool that stands beneath the rope,
And once upon it stare between the bars
That tell me that no matter how I grope,
I'll never get a clear view of the stars:
And then I slip the cord about my neck,
And tell myself again that I am right;
That Death and only Death can ever check
The progress of confinement's endless night:
And on the iron bars I fix my stare,
As I, at last escaping, kick the chair.