TOMORROW is Bastille Day in France, recalling the storming of the Paris prison in 1789 and the freeing of its inmates. Here is a poem, by John Wain, about a French prisoner who has not been set free. It can be found in The Oxford Book of Twentieth Century English Verse, chosen by Philip Larkin, with foreword by Andrew Motion (eighteenth impression).

AU JARDIN DES PLANTES

The gorilla lay on his back,

One hand cupped behind his head,

Like a man.

Like a labouring man tired with work,

A strong man with his strength burnt away

In the toil of earning a living.

Only of course he was not tired out with work,

Merely with boredom; his terrible strength

All burnt away by prodigal idleness.

A thousand days, and then a thousand days,

Idleness licked away his beautiful strength,

He having no need to earn a living.

It was all laid on, free of charge.

We maintained him, not for doing anything,

But for being what he was.

And so that Sunday morning he lay on his back,

Like a man, like a worn-out man,

One hand cupped under his terrible hard head.

Like a man, like a man,

One of those we maintain, not for doing anything,

But for being what they are.

A thousand days, and then a thousand days,

With everything laid on, free of charge,

They cup their heads in prodigal idleness.