On the Asylum Road

Theirs is 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 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 beat To fainter music ; nor do we to them Make their life sweet.

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 !