Fast closed with double grills
And triple gates--the cell
To wicked souls is hell;
But to a mind that's innocent
'Tis only iron, wood and stone.
[Fr., Doubles grilles a gros cloux,
Triples portes, forts verroux,
Aux ames vraiment mechantes
Vous representez l'enfer;
Mais aux ames innocentes
Vous n'etes que du bois, des pierres, du fer.]
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In durance vile here must I wake and weep,
And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep.
In durance vile here must I wake and weep,
And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep.
Prison'd in a parlour snug and small,
Like bottled wasps upon a southern wall.
Prison'd in a parlour snug and small,
Like bottled wasps upon a southern wall.
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage,
Minds innocent and quiet take
read more
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage,
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage.
Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass,
Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron,
Can read more
Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass,
Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron,
Can be retentive to the strength of spirit;
But life, being weary of these worldly bars,
Never lacks power to dismiss itself.
"And a bird-cage, sir," said Sam. "Veels vithin veels, a prison
in a prison."
"And a bird-cage, sir," said Sam. "Veels vithin veels, a prison
in a prison."
And as for their appearances, they four had one likeness, as if a
wheel had been in the midst read more
And as for their appearances, they four had one likeness, as if a
wheel had been in the midst of a wheel.
I have been studying how I may compare
This prison where I live unto the world;
And, read more
I have been studying how I may compare
This prison where I live unto the world;
And, for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it. Yet I'll hammer it out.
Whene'er with haggard eyes I view
This dungeon that I'm rotting in,
I think of those companions read more
Whene'er with haggard eyes I view
This dungeon that I'm rotting in,
I think of those companions true
Who studied with me at the U-
Niversity of Gottingen.
- George Canning, Song--Of One Eleven Years in Prison,
That which the world miscalls a jail,
A private closet is to me.
. . . .
read more
That which the world miscalls a jail,
A private closet is to me.
. . . .
Locks, bars, and solitude together met,
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.
