<h2><SPAN name="page124"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>ALL MAD</h2>
<p class="poetry">“He is mad as a hare, poor fellow,<br/>
And should be in chains,” you say.<br/>
I haven’t a doubt of your statement,<br/>
But who isn’t mad, I pray?<br/>
Why, the world is a great asylum,<br/>
And people are all insane,<br/>
Gone daft with pleasure or folly,<br/>
Or crazed with passion and pain.</p>
<p class="poetry">The infant who shrieks at a shadow,<br/>
The child with his Santa Claus faith,<br/>
The woman who worships Dame Fashion,<br/>
Each man with his notions of death,<br/>
The miser who hoards up his earnings,<br/>
The spendthrift who wastes them too soon,<br/>
The scholar grown blind in his delving,<br/>
The lover who stares at the moon.</p>
<p class="poetry"><SPAN name="page125"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
125</span>The poet who thinks life a pæan,<br/>
The cynic who thinks it a fraud,<br/>
The youth who goes seeking for pleasure,<br/>
The preacher who dares talk of God,<br/>
All priests with their creeds and their croaking,<br/>
All doubters who dare to deny,<br/>
The gay who find aught to wake laughter,<br/>
The sad who find aught worth a sigh,<br/>
Whoever is downcast or solemn,<br/>
Whoever is gleeful and glad,<br/>
Are only the dupes of delusions—<br/>
We are all of us—all of us mad.</p>
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