Version I

He did not wear his scarlet coat, 
For blood and wine are red, 
And blood and wine were on his hands 
When they found him with the dead, 
The poor dead woman whom he loved, 
And murdered in her bed. 


He walked amongst the Trial Men 
In a suit of shabby grey; 
A cricket cap was on his head, 
And his step seemed light and gay; 
But I never saw a man who looked 
So wistfully at the day. 


I never saw a man who looked 
With such a wistful eye 
Upon that little tent of blue 
Which prisoners call the sky, 
And at every drifting cloud that went 
With sails of silver by. 


I walked, with other souls in pain, 
Within another ring, 
And was wondering if the man had done 
A great or little thing, 
When a voice behind me whispered low, 
'That fellows got to swing.' 


Dear Christ! the very prison walls 
Suddenly seemed to reel, 
And the sky above my head became 
Like a casque of scorching steel; 
And, though I was a soul in pain, 
My pain I could not feel. 

I only knew what hunted thought 
Quickened his step, and why 
He looked upon the garish day 
With such a wistful eye; 
The man had killed the thing he loved 
And so he had to die. 

Yet each man kills the thing he loves 
By each let this be heard, 
Some do it with a bitter look, 
Some with a flattering word, 
The coward does it with a kiss, 
The brave man with a sword! 

Some kill their love when they are young, 
And some when they are old; 
Some strangle with the hands of Lust, 
Some with the hands of Gold: 
The kindest use a knife, because 
The dead so soon grow cold. 

Some love too little, some too long, 
Some sell, and others buy; 
Some do the deed with many tears, 
And some without a sigh: 
For each man kills the thing he loves, 
Yet each man does not die. 

He does not die a death of shame 
On a day of dark disgrace, 
Nor have a noose about his neck, 
Nor a cloth upon his face, 
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor 
Into an empty place 

He does not sit with silent men 
Who watch him night and day; 
Who watch him when he tries to weep, 
And when he tries to pray; 
Who watch him lest himself should rob 
The prison of its prey. 

He does not wake at dawn to see 
Dread figures throng his room, 
The shivering Chaplain robed in white, 
The Sheriff stern with gloom, 
And the Governor all in shiny black, 
With the yellow face of Doom. 

He does not rise in piteous haste 
To put on convict-clothes, 
While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes 
Each new and nerve-twitched pose, 
Fingering a watch whose little ticks 
Are like horrible hammer-blows. 

He does not know that sickening thirst 
That sands one's throat, before 
The hangman with his gardener's gloves 
Slips through the padded door, 
And binds one with three leathern thongs, 
That the throat may thirst no more. 

He does not bend his head to hear 
The Burial Office read, 
Nor, while the terror of his soul 
Tells him he is not dead, 
Cross his own coffin, as he moves 
Into the hideous shed. 

He does not stare upon the air 
Through a little roof of glass; 
He does not pray with lips of clay 
For his agony to pass; 
Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek 
The kiss of Caiaphas. 

II.

Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard, 
In a suit of shabby grey: 
His cricket cap was on his head, 
And his step seemed light and gay, 
But I never saw a man who looked 
So wistfully at the day. 

I never saw a man who looked 
With such a wistful eye 
Upon that little tent of blue 
Which prisoners call the sky, 
And at every wandering cloud that trailed 
Its raveled fleeces by. 

He did not wring his hands, as do 
Those witless men who dare 
To try to rear the changeling Hope 
In the cave of black Despair: 
He only looked upon the sun, 
And drank the morning air. 

He did not wring his hands nor weep, 
Nor did he peek or pine, 
But he drank the air as though it held 
Some healthful anodyne; 
With open mouth he drank the sun 
As though it had been wine! 

And I and all the souls in pain, 
Who tramped the other ring, 
Forgot if we ourselves had done 
A great or little thing, 
And watched with gaze of dull amaze 
The man who had to swing. 

And strange it was to see him pass 
With a step so light and gay, 
And strange it was to see him look 
So wistfully at the day, 
And strange it was to think that he 
Had such a debt to pay. 

For oak and elm have pleasant leaves 
That in the spring-time shoot: 
But grim to see is the gallows-tree, 
With its adder-bitten root, 
And, green or dry, a man must die 
Before it bears its