The broken soldier sings and whistles day to dark; <br />He's but the remnant of a man, maimed and half-blind, <br />But the soul they could not harm goes singing like the lark, <br />Like the incarnate Joy that will not be confined. <br /> <br />The Lady at the Hall has given him a light task, <br />He works in the gardens as busy as a bee; <br />One hand is but a stump and his face a pitted mask; <br />The gay soul goes singing like a bird set free. <br /> <br />Whistling and singing like a linnet on wings; <br />The others stop to listen, leaning on the spade, <br />Whole men and comely, they fret at little things. <br />The soul of him's singing like a thrush in a glade. <br /> <br />Hither and thither, hopping, like Robin on the grass, <br />The soul in the broken man is beautiful and brave; <br />And while he weeds the pansies and the bright hours pass <br />The bird caught in the cage whistles its joyous stave.<br /><br />Katharine Tynan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-broken-soldier/
