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
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