Dora Sigerson Shorter

“ Home to the moon-pale lake, the heath-clad hill,
And give no thought for one imprisoned still.
All day I lie beneath the sad pine tree,
Whose groaning branches wave and shadow me,
Chained to the earth, the dark clay of the grave,
In helpless passion feel its wild heart rave,
“Free, set me free,” I hear its moaning breath,
Where liberty means nought, alas, but death.
Ah, freedom is but death. ”