The stubbled Hemp-field called the wind That passed with moistened eyes:."Go down to Bordeaux Gaol and find Where he, the dead man, lies.Tell him my fields are shamed to-night Beneath the autumn skies.
."Tell him if I had known my strands Would weave a hangman's coilMy seed had never groped its hands Up through the choking soil,My fields had never burned at night Their lamps of silver oil.
."Was it for this I drank the sun Out of the Noon's high cup?Was it for this I lay against The mammalled wind, to sup?Was it for this I braved the dark Till the bronze moon camp up?
."Blest is the golden wheat that gives Red blood to good or ill,And blest the weed that wastes her seed Upon the gypsied hill.But I must stand with curseèd hand, For I was born to kill.
."To-night a cooling summer breeze Blows down from Saint Hilaire.It blows to Bordeaux Gaol and through Her chamber of despair.It blows across a grave whose sides A coat of quick-lime wear.
."It blows on your own sleeping boy And cools his fevered head;Perhaps, when you are gone, he'll go Less early to his bed--When you are gone, some time, at dawn His hands may too be red.
."Or yet his hands may not be red But clean of ill design,And still he'll swing--a breathless thing-- Upon the hangman's line,And join the guiltless host who poured Their pale unripened wine.
."I am the Hemp; God made me strong To swing the flowing sail,To hold the mast against the blast He made me stout and hale.And now He walks my stubbled fields And weeps for Bordeaux Gaol.
."They took my strands and made the rope; They made it white and strong--Perhaps he too had done the same, In Naples, to a song,Before his strangely-ventured life Had stumbled on the Wrong.
."I felt my fibre 'round his neck: His veins grew hard and black--His tongue flew out and, with strong hands, They could not force it back-It was a shame to keep outside Men waiting with a sack.
."An hour he battled with my rope-- An endless hour of Time.It was a shame to keep outside The men with sack and lime.And yet I held so firm, his mouth Was dribbling with his slime.
."Was it for this I drank the sun Out of the Noon's high cup?Was it for this I lay against The mammalled wind, to sup?Was it for this I braved the dark Till the bronze moon came up?."
The stubbled Hemp-field called the wind That passed with hurried stride:."Go down to Bordeaux Gaol and find The man they killed,." she cried--."Tell him my fields lie shamed to-night Beneath the moon's white tide.."
