ON THE ASYLUM ROAD
Theirsis the house whose windows—every pane—Are made of darkly stained or clouded glass:Sometimes you come upon them in the lane,The saddest crowd that you will ever pass.But still we merry town or village folkThrow to their scattered stare a kindly grin,And think no shame to stop and crack a jokeWith the incarnate wages of man’s sin.None but ourselves in our long gallery we meet,The moor-hen stepping from her reeds with dainty feet,The hare-bell bowing on his stem,Dance not with us; their pulses beatTo fainter music; nor do we to themMake their life sweet.The gayest crowd that they will ever passAre we to brother-shadows in the lane:Our windows, too, are clouded glassTo them, yes, every pane!
Theirsis the house whose windows—every pane—Are made of darkly stained or clouded glass:Sometimes you come upon them in the lane,The saddest crowd that you will ever pass.But still we merry town or village folkThrow to their scattered stare a kindly grin,And think no shame to stop and crack a jokeWith the incarnate wages of man’s sin.None but ourselves in our long gallery we meet,The moor-hen stepping from her reeds with dainty feet,The hare-bell bowing on his stem,Dance not with us; their pulses beatTo fainter music; nor do we to themMake their life sweet.The gayest crowd that they will ever passAre we to brother-shadows in the lane:Our windows, too, are clouded glassTo them, yes, every pane!
Theirsis the house whose windows—every pane—Are made of darkly stained or clouded glass:Sometimes you come upon them in the lane,The saddest crowd that you will ever pass.
Theirsis the house whose windows—every pane—
Are made of darkly stained or clouded glass:
Sometimes you come upon them in the lane,
The saddest crowd that you will ever pass.
But still we merry town or village folkThrow to their scattered stare a kindly grin,And think no shame to stop and crack a jokeWith the incarnate wages of man’s sin.
But still we merry town or village folk
Throw to their scattered stare a kindly grin,
And think no shame to stop and crack a joke
With the incarnate wages of man’s sin.
None but ourselves in our long gallery we meet,The moor-hen stepping from her reeds with dainty feet,The hare-bell bowing on his stem,Dance not with us; their pulses beatTo fainter music; nor do we to themMake their life sweet.
None but ourselves in our long gallery we meet,
The moor-hen stepping from her reeds with dainty feet,
The hare-bell bowing on his stem,
Dance not with us; their pulses beat
To fainter music; nor do we to them
Make their life sweet.
The gayest crowd that they will ever passAre we to brother-shadows in the lane:Our windows, too, are clouded glassTo them, yes, every pane!
The gayest crowd that they will ever pass
Are we to brother-shadows in the lane:
Our windows, too, are clouded glass
To them, yes, every pane!