Gentleness is surely not a crime,
Yet all too often punished like it were;
Its devotees all end up doing time,
Not in a jail, as honesty'd prefer,
But in others' demands and their good graces,
For what cannot in conscience be refused
Is, to the gentle, like the sweet embraces
Of a padded cell. They are abused
By their own gentle natures, which insist
They must be kind to others, which in turn
Gives them an infinitely endless list
Of duties to perform, until they learn
To roughen up a bit - or else they stay
Imprisoned by themselves in their own way.
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