The Hangman

The hangman's hands are dyed with blood, And all they touch or hold Is stained and streaked with clotted blood E'en to his bloody gold— The coins that are paid for human breath And the lives which he has sold. In scarlet hue stand old and new— His clothes, his board, his bed. There is blood in the cup he lifts up, And crimson in his bread; And e'en his floors and walls and doors Are marked with gory red. The hangman's face is dull and grey, And soulless are his eyes; That he may live from day to day, Some fellow-being dies. The tears of the young are naught to him, Nor ages stifled cries. He does not know the sob of woe; Black fear he does not know; Hardly a word from his lips are heard, And his ears heed no appeal. His cruel chin reveals within A nature hard as steel, The hangman's thoughts are not of love, Nor are they yet of hate; They do not lift themselves above The dungeon's iron gate; Their interests are the knotted rope And the heavy gallows weight. His mind is filled with the counted killed And the hope of more to come. And the price they fling when men must swing, Which makes a goodly sum; For his reason waits on the law's black hates, And, save for this, stands dumb. The hangman's soul lies stiff and stark. The hangman's heart is dead; And the need of friends is a burnt out spark For he is marked with the murder's mark. And with blood upon his head. In times of rest he knows no guest— No hand will touch him, none! Nor woman mild nor happy child Greets him when day is done; And he walks the night, a poison blight, An outcast of the sun