The Dungeoned Anarchist.
He crouches, voiceless, in his tomb-like cell, Forgot of all things save his jailer's hate That turns the daylight from his iron grate To make his prison more and more a hell; For him no coming day or hour shall spell Deliverance, or bid his soul await The hand of Mercy at his dungeon gate: He would not know even though a kingdom fell! The black night hides his hand before his eyes,-- That grim, clenched hand still burning with the sting Of royal blood; he holds it like a prize, Waiting the hour when he at last shall fling The stain in God's face, shrieking as he dies: "Behold the unconquered arm that slew a king!"
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"He crouches, voiceless, in his tomb-like cell,..."
"The Dungeoned Anarchist." is a quintessential example of Charles Hamilton Musgrove's signature style... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...