Yes, I was mad. I know it. I was mad.
For there is madness in the looks of love;
And he who frights a tender, brooding dove
Is not more base than I, and not so sad;
For I had kill'd the hope that made me glad,
And curs'd, in thought, the sunlight from above.
II.
He was a fool, indeed, who lately tried
To touch the moon, far-shining in the trees,
He clomb the branches with his hands and knees.