MADHOUSE GARDEN

ALOOF he heareth yet the vulgar urge And throng his realm, and groweth glad of bars. It is a gentle kingly thaumaturge Hath made a net of little silver stars, And snared contentment, that great golden carp, The moon contentment, that shall never die, And charmeth him upon a tender harp, And hath him in a net of lazuli. Thus I shall hear you crying presently, And shall look forth with questioning dream-dimmed eyes Upon your turmoil and perplexity, Out of whatever hell or paradise The maker of nets is come to, bye and bye; And shall not understand or sympathize.