I'm of that madness

I’m of that madness which so sweetly weaves
The threads and fabrics of the human tongue
And which forbears my mind to linger long
Before to it a swarm of fancies cleaves.

I’m of that madness that so full a song
My heart lets off, employing restless griefs,
When faces known to me like mere leaves
Are thrown by autumn winds and swept along.

I’m of that madness which inclines too oft
The souls of petty men to call it true,
For though I name it madness I but play –

A game of weakness born, when faith is soft
And I too limp the world for lies to sue,
And I bereft of hope to have my say.