Mourner, That Dost Deserve Thy Mournfulness, Call Thyself Punished, Call The Earth Thy Hell; Say, "God Is Angry, And I Earned It Well-- I Would Not Have Him Smile On Wickedness:" Say This, And Straightway All Thy Grief Grows Less:-- "God Rules At Least, I Find As Prophets Tell, And Proves It In This Prison!"--Then Thy Cell Smiles With An Unsuspected Loveliness. --"A Prison--And Yet From Door And Window-Bar I Catch A Thousand Breaths Of His Sweet Air! Even To Me His Days And Nights Are Fair! He Shows Me Many A Flower And Many A Star! And Though I Mourn And He Is Very Far, He Does Not Kill The Hope That Reaches There!"