DR. WILLIAM C. MINOR
A pitiful case that must be;
My heart, it is bleeding within.
Those deep misty eyes I can see,
Great learning and lack of all sin;
These eyes full of knowledge of things,
Intelligent, yet, and without.
A shiver of sorrow it brings,
That such things should come round about.
Full forty years' lifetime he spent
With rude and with ignorant men,
When light of his reason all went—
He murdered. His punishment then—
To Broadmoor. A criminal grave.
This man went, of genius and pow'r,
To live out his life till its wave,
His room on the right third floor tow'r.
My heart, it is bleeding within.
Those deep misty eyes I can see,
Great learning and lack of all sin;
These eyes full of knowledge of things,
Intelligent, yet, and without.
A shiver of sorrow it brings,
That such things should come round about.
Full forty years' lifetime he spent
With rude and with ignorant men,
When light of his reason all went—
He murdered. His punishment then—
To Broadmoor. A criminal grave.
This man went, of genius and pow'r,
To live out his life till its wave,
His room on the right third floor tow'r.
He gave to Sir Murray's great book
Eight thousand good verses to use,
For words that all people should look,
To use thus, and not to confuse.
Such learning, such wisdom, and yet
The lack of pure reason was there.
Queer phantasies that he could get
Not over, his mind has to share.
His sin? Do you say that he killed?
No, no, yes, a thousand times no.
The sin of so many, that lay
Eight thousand good verses to use,
For words that all people should look,
To use thus, and not to confuse.
Such learning, such wisdom, and yet
The lack of pure reason was there.
Queer phantasies that he could get
Not over, his mind has to share.
His sin? Do you say that he killed?
No, no, yes, a thousand times no.
The sin of so many, that lay
