Behind those eyes is much that's never spoken -
old trouble that peeps out and shakes its head
whenever things should cause it to be woken;
its sleep redeems the dreamer from the dead.
Gladness is best for hiding in, and idle
the trouble turns in sleep, but does not wake.
Still other things will make the bearer bridle,
pressing the pain deep down for safety's sake.
When love's no longer weighed upon the balance,
and formulae from courses rule the day,
the best are kept from offering their talents,
and only favourite factions get their say.
Dear God, what did our children ever cause
that made them suffer, under pointless laws?