Rousseau in the Happy Land of Sleep

The first modern man and honest human A lone father from Plato’s Republic An innocent dove corrupted by man But who learned how to play his soul’s music Though his flesh by decree was frail and sick Whose love was philosophy with her veils Though he was pelted with rocks by man's gales Now on the island where angels still cheep Far from the noise of mortal tattletales Little Chateau, the happy land of sleep