The soul unto itself
Is an imperial friend, —
Or the most agonizing spy
An enemy could send.
Secure against its own,
No treason it can fear;
Itself its sovereign, of itself
The soul should stand in awe.
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad for life, mad for talking, mad for poetry.
The soul unto itself
Is an imperial friend, —
Or the most agonizing spy
An enemy could send.
Secure against its own,
No treason it can fear;
Itself its sovereign, of itself
The soul should stand in awe.