Classic Poem

You tend the smoky, dim, and wavering flame
Which stains your prison walls with oozy grime,
And pour the oil which brings again what time
With friendly hand had taken. Oh, for shame!
'Tis but a little while and morning came,
And drove the hosts of darkness from the skies,
And purged the heavens. You did not lift your eyes,
But kept them fixed upon the smoky flame.

Behold, 'tis you yourself are your own doom:
Yourself, the wall which hedges you about;
Your oil which feeds the darkness and the gloom,
Your lamp which keeps the light of heaven out.
Lift up you eyes! Behold, the prison walls
Vanish, and from your hands the fetter falls.