To me the sky looks bluer, And the green grass greener still, And earth's flowers seem more lovely As they bloom on heath and hill. There's a beauty breathing round me Like a newborn Eden now, And forgotten are the furrows Grief has graven on my brow. There is gladness in the sunshine, As its gold light gilds the trees, And I hear a voice of music Singing to me in the breeze. There is in my heart a lightness That seemeth not of me, For today I've burst from bondage, And I feel that I am free.
Free in the golden sunshine, Free in the fresh pure air, Where the flowers of the forest In their wild homes flourish fair. Free to thought to give expression, To sing, to dance, and show That the stern world has not crushed me With its weary weight of woe. Are the years of care and sorrow But a dark dream of the past, Or this new life but a vision That is all too bright to last? How exaltingly my spirit Flashes forth its newborn glee, As amid rejoicing nature I can feel that I am free.
I have neither friend nor loved one To welcome me, nor home; And lonely through the wide world As a stranger I must roam; I know not where tomorrow To procure my daily bread, And tonight the waving branches Must canopy my head. But if I had a palace, If of friends a gladsome throng, If some darling one were near me To cheer with love and song, If I'd riches which were boundless, No more joyous could I be Than what I am, exulting In the thought that I am free.
Free in the bright glad sunshine, Free in the fresh pure air, My heart with gladness throbbing, And on my brow no care. There's the blue sky all above me - Not a prison roof between - And at my feet the flowers Nestle in the verdure green.
Hark! I hear the breezes singing - 'Lift thy heart to God on high, Who hath brought theee back from sorrow To this world of hope and joy.' And the little nodding flowers In a chorus sing to me - 'If God from sin shall free thee, Then thou shalt indeed be free!'
- by Owen Suffolk37
I'm out in the world once more, And I mean to run the rig, For I've learned from the prison lore That the pauper fares worse than the prig. I've shivered and starved in vain, And been honest for months in rag, So if I'm convicted again, I think it won't be on the vag.
Poems by Owen Suffolk, Owen Suffolk's poems collection. Owen Suffolk is a classical and famous poet (Born: 1829 / Australia). Share all poems of Owen Suffolk.