Keys turning rattling in the loose locks opening high the doors that close again like death-hours coming faster the walls are white and the line of beds is staring all the bars go up and down and none of them lead outward and leaping eyes and stiff limbs follow the crunch of the keys I am powerful now and I will break those that carry the keys with little hammers small hammers which you will make for me and hide in the porridge I will break all their heads and lay them in neat rows and we shall wave high the keys and open wide a million doors and all of us shall dance in the snow and that poor woman in the spiral casket shall warm a wooden doll to her dress and lean her hair in the fire the grating shall be taken from about the fire and the woman and the keys shall go within all of us shall dance within