The Prisoner

The captive raised her face; it was a soft and mild

As sculptured marble saint; or slumbering unweaned child;

It was so soft and mild, it was so sweet and fair, 

Pain could not trace a line, or grief a shadow there!

The captive raised her hand and pressed it to her brow; 

"I have been struck," she said, "and I am suffering now;

Yet these are little worth, your bolts and iron strong; 

And, were they forged in steel, they could not hold me long."

-Emily Brontë, 

"The Prisoner," 1845