Brought no release for his imprisoned feet
Or the wild soul pent in that cloistral peace
Among the gilt and painted images
Of the dead saints, the effigies of stone,
The prisoned light, the windless, silent air
That came not fresh from out the heart of dawn,
But hung upon him heavily as death,
Damp with its charnels; and the solemn chants
Filled him with longing for the loud-voiced larks,
And he was eager for my lips again.