C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Habeas Corpus
By Helen Hunt Jackson (1830–1885)
M
Why all this tedious pomp of writ?
Thou hast reclaimed it sure and slow
For half a century, bit by bit.
Than I do, where it can be found!
This shriveled lump of suffering clay,
To which I now am chained and bound,
To the good body once I bore:
Look at this shrunken, ghastly face,—
Didst ever see that face before?
Thy only fault thy lagging gait,
Mistaken pity in thy heart
For timorous ones that bid thee wait.
Nor I nor mine will hindrance make:
I shall be free when thou art through;
I grudge thee naught that thou must take!
Yes, two I grudge thee at this last,—
Two members which have faithful done
My will and bidding in the past.
I grudge thee this quick-beating heart:
They never gave me coward sign,
Nor played me once a traitor’s part.
Men in barbaric love or hate
Nailed enemies’ hands at wild crossways,
Shrined leaders’ hearts in costly state:
Of each soul’s purpose, passion, strife,
Of fires in which are poured and spent
Their all of love, their all of life.
O fragile, dauntless human heart!
The universe holds nothing planned
With such sublime, transcendent art!
Poor little hand, so feeble now;
Its wrinkled palm, its altered line,
Its veins so pallid and so slow.
Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art:
I shall be free when thou art through.
Take all there is—take hand and heart:
There must be somewhere work to do.