Classic Poem

God grant, my reason ne'er betray me;
Nay, better, fever-waste or want,
Nay, better, toil and starve.

'Tis not that I my mind or wit
Have e'er prized high, or that with them
I were not glad to part.

If but my freedom were untouched,
With joy and gladness would I make
My home in forest dark

With raving frenzy I should sing,
Myself forget, and lose my soul
In weird discordant dreams.

Strength uncontrolled would then be mine,
Like wildest storm that sweeps the fields,
And lays the forest bare.

Then I should hearken song of waves,
Be filled with joy, and gaze upon
The empty, vacant sky.

Ay, there's the rub: to lose my mind,
Be feared, as men do fear the plague,
And close in prison locked:

And when the madman's chained, in crowds
They'll come, and through the grating stare,
And tease the surly beast.

And then, at night, compelled to hear,
Instead of nightingale's high note,
Or forest's murmur soft,

The frantic shrieks of prison-mates,
Muttered oaths of warders sullen,
And creaking noise of chains