The leopard in his cage Feels no more restless rage Than I here in this room Hearing, like doom,
The iron bustle of incessant trains,
The bells, the laughter
Of children playing, and the silence after. . . .
There is the food of madness in these things For one who clings
Too hard to life, and that warm fraction Of life, called love.
Now a brute frenzy sends me pacing The quiet room.
But the strong rigid bars are in my breast,
Where the gold spirit lozenged large with gloom Roams without rest.