The Prisoner

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I count the dismal time by months and years,
Since last l felt the green sward under foot,
And the great breath of all things summer-mute
Met mine upon my lips. Now earth appears
As strange to me as dreams of distant spheres,
Or thoughts of Heaven we weep at. Nature's lute
Sounds on behind this door so closely shut,
A strange, wild music to the prisoner's ears.
Dilated by the distance, till the brain
Grows dim with fancies which it feels too fine;
While ever, with a visionary pain,
Past the precluded senses, sweep and shine
Streams, forests, glades, -- and many a golden train
Of sunlit hills, transfigured to Divine.


The Poems Of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Volume 1
Copyright 1853
C. S. Francis & Co., 262 Broadway, New York
Crosby & Nichols, Boston

Recommended Works

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I could be content ... - John KeatsTo The Same - Anne WhitneyTo Fancy - Thomas HoodThe Seraph And Poet - Elizabeth Barrett BrowningTo ____. (My heart is sick with longing, though I feed) - Thomas HoodPast And Future - Elizabeth Barrett BrowningLear - Thomas HoodSonnet To A Sonnet - Thomas HoodTo _. (Time's sea hath been five years at its low ebb, ...) - John KeatsTo J. H. Reynolds - John KeatsAfter dark vapors have oppress'd our plains ... - John KeatsAdequacy - Elizabeth Barrett BrowningI cry your mercy -- pity -- love -- ay, love ... - John KeatsFor The Fourteenth Of February - Thomas HoodIn the still hours, a stiller strength was born - Anne WhitneyThe Two Sayings - Elizabeth Barrett BrowningContinence - Anne Whitney