To One in Bedlam

Ernest Dowson

1867 to 1900

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Track 1

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

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