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.) [field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-] [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.) [field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-field-] 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) ...[tape-fugue-horn, indie-indie-trumpet vocals, jazz-vocals, cello-viola-acoustic-folk, spare-field, cello-viola] ... 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) 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.) ... [field;field-vocals, field;field-vocals, field;field-vocals] ... 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 upon the air [Through a little roof of glass;] (He does not pray with lips of clay) For his agony to pass; [Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek] (The kiss of Caiaphas.) ... [field;field-vocals, field;field-vocals, field;field-vocals] ... 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 upon the air [Through a little roof of glass;] (He does not pray with lips of clay) For his agony to pass; [Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek] (The kiss of Caiaphas.) [end]
