Exile

By Helen Hunt Jackson

Men may be banished, and a blood-price set,
Tracking their helpless steps in every land,
Arming against their life each base man's hand,
But light and air and memory are met
In holy league, to help and save them yet,
From all of death which souls cannot withstand:
The subtlest cruelty which ever planned,
Can never make them pray they may forget
Because they are forgotten.

They may go,
Driven of earth and tossed by salt sea's foam,
Till every breath one slow dull pain become;
It is not exile. Only exiles know:
Nor distance makes, nor nearness saves the blow;
The exile had of exile died at home.