The Passionate Prisoner

Ye walls that shut me up from sight of men,
Inclosed wherein alive I buried lie;
And thou sometime my bed, but now my den,
Where, smothered up, the light of sun I fly:
Oh! shut yourselves; each chink and crevice strain,
That none but you may hear me thus complain.

My hollow cries that beat thy stony side,
Vouchsafe to beat, but beat them back again;
That when my grief hath speech to me denied,
Mine ears may hear the witness of my pain.
As for my tears, whose streams must ever last,
My silent couch shall drink them up as fast.