O Happy Sanctuary (Ode To A Commode)

O happy sanctuary,
Scattered like seeds of a crop,
Yet fertile before their soils.

Although common as their job,
True sanctuary is rare.
A node of boughs seeking love.

Any man can be a king,
Should he possess the right throne,
And kings be but men without.

For appropriately perched,
Only do wise owls ponder,
And philosophers create.

Sanctuary’s small kingdom,
Where insects may be giants,
And masterpieces revealed.

Hours panning for fool’s art,
Leisure inexhaustible,
And gallery unending.

For thus does true art blossom,
With lightness of form and heart,
From primalities conducted.

The sanctuary, safe place,
Summarised within the spring,
So joyously moves the heart.

And thus do our angels bloom,
Philosophers, kings, saved men,
Humbled within our own home.

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