Surging thro’ brain and body with precious unwonted pain.
Out from the damp, dark cell,
The shackles, the sorrowful silence,
Out from the ring of faces and the jarring of stern commands,
Forth to the scent of the meadows,
The glisten of garrulous brooklets,
And the dim, kindly evening he blessed with his weary hands.
On, like the sweep of a scimitar
Dashed he, cutting the darkness,
Or as the storm blows on, none knowing its way or its will;