O Thrush, Your Song Is Passing Sweet,

In Prison Wearily, Drearily, Half The Day Long, Flap The Great Banners High Over The Stone; Strangely And Eerily Sounds The Wind's Song, Bending The Banner-poles. While, All Alone, Watching The Loophole's Spark, Lie I, With Life All Dark, Feet Tethered, Hands Fettered Fast To The Stone, The Grim Walls, Square Lettered With Prisoned Men's Groan. Still Strain The Banner-poles Through The Wind's Song, Westward The Banner Rolls Over My Wrong.

Free Men Must Live Simple Lives And Have Simple Pleasures.

Not On One Strand Are All Life's Jewels Strung.

If We Feel The Least Degradation In Being Amorous, Or Merry Or Hungry, Or Sleepy, We Are So Far Bad Animals & Miserable Men.

And The Deeds That Ye Do Upon This Earth, It Is For Fellowship's Sake That Ye Do Them.