Drowsy waves, sky unwashed and dirty,
And on the bank there out beyond,
The rushes sway without a wind
As they were drunken... God of mercy!
Is it still long I must endure,
Here, in this prison that holds sure
Though lockless, by this worthless sea,
This weary life? It does not speak.
The yellowed grass, but silent, sways
As if alive, across the plain.
To speak the truth is not its task...
And there is no one else to ask.

Poem, 1850. Song Out of Darkness: Seleted Poems (Mitre Press, 1961), p. 91