Beloved, cease thy slavery.
Dear and most godlike, never keep
Thine heart for sorrows less than thee.
Thou who by day wouldst cease to weep,
But who dost hug the dark, be free!
Thy countenance most kingly bends
Towards the earth; thy tressed hair
With tarnished gauds, unworthy, blends;
On shining shoulders dost thou bear
The woes and whelming tyrannies
Of this poor flesh that strives and dies:
Not knowing that all thy many bands
Are rotten through, and those grim shades
That ride thy back and bind thine hands,
Are of that realm that truth invades
And conquers with a heavenly might;
Lift up thine eyes: behold, the light!
1915.