The Ballad of Reading Gaol. Wilde Oscar

                     He did not wear his scarlet coat,

                       For blood and wine are red,

                     And blood and wine were on his hands

                       When they found him with the dead,

                     The poor dead woman whom he loved,

                       And murdered in her bed.

                     He walked amongst the Trial Men

                       In a suit of shabby grey;

                     A cricket cap was on his head,

                       And his step seemed light and gay;

                     But I never saw a man who looked

                       So wistfully at the day.

                     I never saw a man who looked

                       With such a wistful eye

                     Upon that little tent of blue

                       Which prisoners call the sky,

                     And at every drifting cloud that went

                       With sails of silver by.

                     I walked, with other souls in pain,

                       Within another ring,

                     And was wondering if the man had done

                       A great or little thing,

                     When a voice behind me whispered low,

                       "That fellow's got to swing."

                     Dear Christ! the very prison walls

                       Suddenly seemed to reel,

                     And the sky above my head became

                       Like a casque of scorching steel;

                     And, though I was a soul in pain,

                       My pain I could not feel.

                     I only knew what hunted thought

                       Quickened his step, and why

                     He looked upon the garish day

                       With such a wistful eye;

                     The man had killed the thing he loved

                       And so he had to die.

                     Yet each man kills the thing he loves

                       By each let this be heard,

                     Some do it with a bitter look,

                       Some with a flattering word,

                     The coward does it with a kiss,

                       The brave man with a sword!

                     Some kill their love when they are young,

                       And some when they are old;

                     Some strangle with the hands of Lust,

                       Some with the hands of Gold:

                     The kindest use a knife, because

                       The dead so soon grow cold.

                     Some love too little, some too long,

                       Some sell, and others buy;

                     Some do the deed with many tears,

                       And some without a sigh:

                     For each man kills the thing he loves,

                       Yet each man does not die.

                     He does not die a death of shame

                       On a day of dark disgrace,

                     Nor have a noose about his neck,

                       Nor a cloth upon his face,

                     Nor drop feet foremost through the floor

                       Into an empty place

                     He does not sit with silent men

                       Who watch him night and day;

                     Who watch him when he tries to weep,

                       And when he tries to pray;

                     Who watch him lest himself should rob

                       The prison of its prey.

                     He does not wake at dawn to see

                       Dread figures throng his room,

                     The shivering Chaplain robed in white,

                       The Sheriff stern with gloom,

                     And the Governor all in shiny black,

                       With the yellow face of Doom.

                     He does not rise in piteous haste

                       To put on convict-clothes,

                     While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes

                       Each new and nerve-twitched pose,

                     Fingering a watch whose little ticks

                       Are like horrible hammer-blows.

                     He does not know that sickening thirst

                       That sands one's throat, before

                     The hangman with his gardener's gloves

                       Slips through the padded door,

                     And binds one with three leathern thongs,

                       That the throat may thirst no more.

                     He does not bend his head to hear

                       The Burial Office read,

                     Nor, while the terror of his soul

                       Tells him he is not dead,

                     Cross his own coffin, as he moves

                       Into the hideous shed.

                     He does not stare