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Updated: May 10, 2025
It is and is not 'tis the thing I sought for, Have kneel'd for, pray'd for, risk'd my fame and life for, And yet it is not no more than the shadow Upon the hard, cold, flat, and polished mirror, Is the warm, graceful, rounded, living substance Which it presents in form and lineament.
There was nothing to fasten it to but an iron staple in the door, that meant losing the width of my cell, some six feet. This, however, must be risk'd, and I made the end fast, lower'd the other out of window again, and climbing to a sitting posture on the window sill, thrust out my legs over the gulf. Thankful was I that darkness had fallen before this, and hidden the giddy depths below me.
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