The Madman | Page 9

books. For he had become an unbeliever.
When My Sorrow Was Born

When my Sorrow was born I nursed it with care, and watched over it
with loving tenderness.
And my Sorrow grew like all living things, strong and beautiful and
full of wondrous delights.
And we loved one another, my Sorrow and I, and we loved the world
about us; for Sorrow had a kindly heart and mine was kindly with
Sorrow.
And when we conversed, my Sorrow and I, our days were winged and
our nights were girdled with dreams; for Sorrow had an eloquent
tongue, and mine was eloquent with Sorrow.
And when we sang together, my Sorrow and I, our neighbors sat at
their windows and listened; for our songs were deep as the sea and our
melodies were full of strange memories.
And when we walked together, my Sorrow and I, people gazed at us
with gentle eyes and whispered in words of exceeding sweetness. And
there were those who looked with envy upon us, for Sorrow was a
noble thing and I was proud with Sorrow.
But my Sorrow died, like all living things, and alone I am left to muse
and ponder.
And now when I speak my words fall heavily upon my ears.
And when I sing my songs my neighbours come not to listen.
And when I walk the streets no one looks at me.
Only in my sleep I hear voices saying in pity, "See, there lies the man
whose Sorrow is dead."
And When my Joy was Born
And when my Joy was born, I held it in my arms and stood on the
house-top shouting, "Come ye, my neighbours, come and see, for Joy

this day is born unto me. Come and behold this gladsome thing that
laugheth in the sun."
But none of my neighbours came to look upon my Joy, and great was
my astonishment.
And every day for seven moons I proclaimed my Joy from the

house-top--and yet no one heeded me. And my Joy and I were alone,
unsought and unvisited.
Then my Joy grew pale and weary because no other heart but mine held
its loveliness and no other lips kissed its lips.
Then my Joy died of isolation.
And now I only remember my dead Joy in remembering my dead
Sorrow. But memory is an autumn leaf that murmurs a while in the
wind and then is heard no more.
"The Perfect World"
God of lost souls, thou who are lost amongst the gods, hear me:
Gentle Destiny that watchest over us, mad, wandering spirits, hear me:
I dwell in the midst of a perfect race, I the most imperfect.
I, a human chaos, a nebula of confused elements, I move amongst
finished worlds--peoples of complete laws and pure order, whose
thoughts are assorted, whose dreams are arranged, and whose visions
are enrolled and registered.
Their virtues, O God, are measured, their sins are weighed, and even
the countless things that pass in the dim twilight of neither sin nor
virtue are recorded and catalogued.
Here days and night are divided into seasons of conduct and governed
by rules of blameless accuracy.

To eat, to drink, to sleep, to cover one's nudity, and then to be weary in
due time.
To work, to play, to sing, to dance, and then to lie still when the clock
strikes the hour.
To think thus, to feel thus much, and then to cease thinking and feeling
when a certain star rises above yonder horizon.
To rob a neighbour with a smile, to bestow gifts with a graceful wave
of the hand, to praise prudently, to blame cautiously, to destroy a sound
with a word, to burn a body with a breath, and then to wash the hands
when the day's work is done.
To love according to an established order, to entertain one's best self in
a preconceived manner, to worship the gods becomingly, to intrigue the
devils artfully--and then to forget all as though memory were dead.
To fancy with a motive, to contemplate with consideration, to be happy
sweetly, to suffer nobly--and then to empty the cup so that tomorrow
may fill it again.
All these things, O God, are conceived with forethought, born with
determination, nursed with exactness, governed by rules, directed by
reason, and then slain and buried after a prescribed method. And even
their silent graves that lie within the human soul are marked and
numbered.
It is a perfect world, a world of consummate excellence, a world of
supreme wonders, the ripest fruit in God's garden, the master-thought
of the universe.
But why should I be here, O God, I a green seed of unfulfilled passion,
a mad tempest that seeketh neither east nor west, a bewildered fragment
from a burnt planet?
Why