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Detachment

 As I go forth from fair to mart
With racket ringing,
Who would divine that in my heart
Mad larks are singing.
As I sweet sympathy express, Lest I should pain them, The money-mongers cannot guess How I disdain them.
As I sit at some silly tea And flirt and flatter How I abhor society And female chatter.
As I with wonderment survey Their peacock dresses, My mind is wafted far away To wildernesses.
As I sit in some raucous pub, Taboo to women, And treat myself to greasy grub I feel quite human.
Yet there I dream, despite the din, Of God's green spaces, And sweetly dwell the peace within Of sylvan graces.
And so I wear my daily mask Of pleasant seeming, And nobody takes me to task For distant dreaming; A happy hypocrite am I Of ambiance inner, Who smiling make the same reply To saint and sinner.

by Robert William Service
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