(For Sara Teasdale) <br /> <br />The lonely farm, the crowded street, <br />The palace and the slum, <br />Give welcome to my silent feet <br />As, bearing gifts, I come. <br /> <br />Last night a beggar crouched alone, <br />A ragged helpless thing; <br />I set him on a moonbeam throne - <br />Today he is a king. <br /> <br />Last night a king in orb and crown <br />Held court with splendid cheer; <br />Today he tears his purple gown <br />And moans and shrieks in fear. <br /> <br />Not iron bars, nor flashing spears, <br />Not land, nor sky, nor sea, <br />Nor love's artillery of tears <br />Can keep mine own from me. <br /> <br />Serene, unchanging, ever fair, <br />I smile with secret mirth <br />And in a net of mine own hair <br />I swing the captive earth.<br /><br />Alfred Joyce Kilmer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/madness-17/
