The Happy Prince

The Happy Prince

“I am going to the House of Death.
Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?”

So now, here I stand,
Bare and broken,
On a horse-cart dragged by
Two bone-ragged skeletons.

“Those were pearls that were his eyes,
Nothing of him that doth fade”
So said the Great Bard.
Alas, those were rubies that were mine.

Perhaps, I’ve teared mine blind.
Swallow, swallow,
You who plucked my eye for the little matchgirl,
Answer me this, I command you:
How is she now?

Does her father still beat her,
When matches are spilt?
Does she cry on the streets,
Looking at unshod feet?
Does she lie stiff in the cold,
Too frightened to move?
Too…dead.

In thin gold leaves I was clad,
Shutting the cold from without.
Swallow, O swallow,
Answer me this, I ask:
How are the impoverished?

Who sit beneath half-streets, and bridges
In hope of a better tomorrow?
Who lie in creaky doorways,
Mending broken shoes and pots and pans.
Do they still scrimp and starve,
Malnourished, cold, wide-eyed,
Hungry?

From my hilt,
A ruby you plucked,
For the seamstress sewing the lady’s dress.
Swallow, Dear swallow,
Answer me this, I beseech:
How fares her now?

Does she sorrow still, over a son feverishly faint?
Does river water still taint her son’s tears and hers?
As she toils embroidering passion flowers on
Another gown for a ball?

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For all the bread in the world,
For all the springs of the high Alps,
Wells in oasis’s far and wide,
Fruit and honey,
Milk and Wine.
I paid the price.

Now give me my freedom from your hearts.

I command,
I beseech,
I beg.

A leaden heart,
A dead sparrow.

I die.
I live,
In the City of Gold,

I’m free.

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