A room without books is like a body without a soul. - Cicero
Break my chains and ope my dungeon,
Let me see the light of day;
Call you nigh a dark-eyed maiden
And a black-maned steed, I pray.
First I'll kiss the young maid sweetly,
Then upon the steed's back fleetly
Spring, and with a shout and cry,
'Cross the green steppe wind-like fly.
Dark my prison is and sombre,
And the door is locked and barred.
Sad the maid sits in her chamber,
From the one who loves her far;
And my good steed 'thout a bridle
In the green field wanders idle
Or, up dale and then down hill,
Head held high, trots at his will.
All alone am I, and trying
Is my lot: on bare stone walls
From a smoke-stained lamp a dying,
Cheerless ray, uncertain, falls;
While behind the door the faceless
Sentry walks, his measured paces,
That no warmth or comfort bring,
In the silence echoing.