Pardoned Out

I'm pardoned out.    Again the stars
    Shine on me with their myriad eyes.
So long I've peered 'twixt iron bars,
    I'm awed by this expanse of skies.
The world is wider than I thought,
    And yet 'tis not so wide, I know,
But into its remotest spot
    My tale of shame can go.

I'm pardoned out.    Old Father Time
    Who seemed to halt in horror, when
I stained my manhood by a crime,
    With steady step moves on again,
And through the black appalling night,
    That walled me in a gloom accurst,
The wonder of the morning light
    In sudden glory burst.

I'm pardoned out.    I shall be known
    No more by number, but by name.
And yet each whispering wind has blown
    Abroad the story of my shame.
I dread to see men shrink away
    With startled looks of scorn or fear,
When in life's crowded marts some day,
    That name falls on their ear.

I'm pardoned out, ah God! to roam
    Like some whipped dog among my kind.
I have no friends, I have no home,
    Save these bleak walls I leave behind.
How can I face the world of men,
    My comrades in the days of yore?
Oh! hide me in my cell again,
    And, warden, lock the door.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Ella Wheeler Wilcox was an American author and poet, born on November 5, 1850, and died on October 30, 1919. She was known for her works expressing optimistic views and moral lessons. Her most famous book was 'Poems of Passion'. Her poem 'Solitude' contains the famous lines, 'Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and you weep alone'. Over her career, Wilcox became popularly known as a 'people's poet'.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

What Happens?

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Simple Poetry

Three Friends

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Simple Poetry

Life's Opera

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Simple Poetry

Love's Sleep.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Singer In The Prison

O sight of shame, and pain, and dole!
O fearful thought a convict Soul!

Rang the refrain along the hall, the prison,
Rose to the roof, the vaults of heaven above,
Pouring in floods of melody, in tones so pensive, sweet and strong, the like whereof was never heard,
Reaching the far-off sentry, and the armed guards, who ceas'd their pacing,
Making the hearer's pulses stop for extasy and awe.

O sight of pity, gloom, and dole!
O pardon me, a hapless Soul!

The sun was low in the west one winter day,
When down a narrow aisle, amid the thieves and outlaws of the land,
(There by the hundreds seated, sear-faced murderers, wily counterfeiters,
Gather'd to Sunday church in prison walls the keepers round,
Plenteous, well-arm'd, watching, with vigilant eyes,)
All t...

Walt Whitman

The Prisoner For Debt

Look on him! through his dungeon grate,
Feebly and cold, the morning light
Comes stealing round him, dim and late,
As if it loathed the sight.
Reclining on his strawy bed,
His hand upholds his drooping head;
His bloodless cheek is seamed and hard,
Unshorn his gray, neglected beard;
And o'er his bony fingers flow
His long, dishevelled locks of snow.
No grateful fire before him glows,
And yet the winter's breath is chill;
And o'er his half-clad person goes
The frequent ague thrill!
Silent, save ever and anon,
A sound, half murmur and half groan,
Forces apart the painful grip
Of the old sufferer's bearded lip;
Oh, sad and crushing is the fate
Of old age chained and desolate!
Just God! why lies that old man there?
A murderer shares his pri...

John Greenleaf Whittier

A Man's Repentance

(Intended for recitation at club dinners.)


To-night when I came from the club at eleven,
    Under the gaslight I saw a face -
A woman's face! and I swear to heaven
    It looked like the ghastly ghost of - Grace!

And Grace? why, Grace was fair; and I tarried,
    And loved her a season as we men do.
And then - but pshaw! why, of course, she is married,
    Has a husband, and doubtless a babe or two.

She was perfectly calm on the day we parted;
    She spared me a scene, to my great surprise.
"She wasn't the kind to be broken-hearted,"
    I remember she said, with a spark in her eyes.

I was tempted, I know, by her proud defiance,
    To make good my promise there and then.
But the world would have called it a mesalliance!
    I d...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Father And Son

My grand-dame, vigorous at eighty-one,
Delights in talking of her only son,
My gallant father, long since dead and gone.
'Ah, but he was the lad!'
She says, and sighs, and looks at me askance.
How well I read the meaning of that glance -
    'Poor son of such a dad;
    Poor weakling, dull and sad.'
I could, but would not tell her bitter truth
About my father's youth.

She says:    'Your father laughed his way through earth:
He laughed right in the doctor's face at birth,
Such joy of life he had, such founts of mirth.
    Ah, what a lad was he!'
And then she sighs.    I feel her silent blame,
Because I brought her nothing but his name.
    Because she does not see
    Her worshipped son in me.
I could, but would not, speak in my defence,
An...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Compensations

I

Blind

When first the shadows fell, like prison bars,
And darkness spread before me, like a pall,
I cried out for the sun, the earth, the stars,
And beat the air, as madmen beat a wall,
Till, impotent, and broken with despair,
I turned my vision inward.    Lo, a spark -
A light - a torch; and all my world grew bright;
For God's dear eyes were shining through the dark.
Then, bringing to me gifts of recompense,
Came keener hearing, finer taste, and touch;
And that oft unappreciated sense,
Which finds sweet odours, and proclaims them such;
And not until my mortal eyes were blind
Did I perceive how kind the world, how kind.

II

Deaf

I can recall a time, when on mine ears
There fell chaotic sounds of earthly life,
S...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

High Noon

Time's finger on the dial of my life
Points to high noon! and yet the half-spent day
Leaves less than half remaining, for the dark,
Bleak shadows of the grave engulf the end.
To those who burn the candle to the stick,
The sputtering socket yields but little light.
Long life is sadder than an early death.
We cannot count on ravelled threads of age
Whereof to weave a fabric.    We must use
The warp and woof the ready present yields
And toil while daylight lasts.    When I bethink
How brief the past, the future, still more brief
Calls on to action, action!    Not for me
Is time for retrospection or for dreams,
Not time for self-laudation or remorse.
Have I done nobly?    Then I must not let
Dead yesterday unborn to-morrow shame.
Have I done wrong?    Well, l...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox