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