I am, and always have been, touched deep within my soul by not only the history of Bethlem but the works of the Renaissance painters as well. Who can say why we are drawn so profoundly to what we are. It appears to be one of (my) life's greatest mysteries. ~Mimi
With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars,
Surely he hath his posies, which they tear and twine;
Those scentless wisps of straw, that miserably line
His strait, caged universe, whereat the dull world stares,
Pedant and pitiful. O, how his rapt gaze wars
With their stupidity! Know they what dreams divine
Lift his long, laughing reveries like enchaunted wine,
And make his melancholy germane to the stars?
O lamentable brother! if those pity thee,
Am I not fain of all thy lone eyes promise me;
Half a fool's kingdom, far from men who sow and reap,
All their days, vanity? Better than mortal flowers,
Thy moon-kissed roses seem: better than love or sleep,
The star-crowned solitude of thine oblivious hours!
~with acknowledgement to Ernest Dawson (1867-1900)
and Albrecht Durer (1471-1528)
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