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 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!