The Captive Heart

My heart is locked in sorrow's tower tall,

Where neither sun nor moon may shed its grace,

And Fortune turns her ever gilded face

Away from me, indifferent to my call.

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I knew a time when joy held open court,

When love was sovereign and the days were long,

Yet now I trace the stones where I belong

And watch the seasons shift beyond the wall.

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O gentle Spring, thou comest bright and new

With all thy birds declaring life begun,

And still, I am the same imprisoned man.

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What profits me that fields are dressed in dew,

That meadows catch the glory of the sun?

My happiness, it seems, has other plans.

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The years do pass as clouds above me roll,

Each one a stranger bearing someone's name,

And those I loved have long since ceased to claim

The letters that I wrote to soothe my soul.

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Yet love itself, that old and stubborn coal,

Burns underneath the grey ash of my shame,

A warmth no Caribbean Sea, no foreign game

Of politics, may smother or control.

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So I shall write my verses till the day

That God in mercy opens wide the door,

And bids my weary spirit go in peace,

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For even kings must someday cease to stay

In towers built by war and nothing more,

And even captive hearts must find release.

Author’s Note:

I cannot point to a single moment that gave me the idea for this poem. It grew more out of a feeling than a specific event. I began thinking about the image of a person confined in a tower, watching the seasons change outside while his own life seems paused.