To One in Bedlam
Ernest Dowson
1867 to 1900
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With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars,
Surely hath his posies, which they tear and twine;
Those wisps of straw that, miserable, line
His strait, caged universe, whereat the dull world stares.
Pedant and pitiful. O, his rapt gaze wars
With their stupidity! Know they dreams divine
Lift his long, laughing reveries like enchanted wine,
And make his melancholy germane to the stars'?
O brother! if those pity thee,
Am I not fain all thy lone eyes promise me;
Half a fool's kingdom, far from men who sow and reap,
All their days, vanity? Better than mortal flowers,
Thy moon-kissed roses seem: than love or sleep,
The star-crowned solitude of thine hours!