Sigmund Freud
Each house had its ghost. Graves opened to his voice,
The dead lived in him by his gray consent:
He was, by their constraint upon his choice,
Orpheus of all the lonesome, spent
His evenings charting out a private hell,
The spaceless realm that all the puzzled caught,
The swamps that made their frightful towns unwell:
He chained his life to theirs, was like them lost.
Perhaps unwillingly he did this, became
Laureate of those who were afraid.
For himself assumed them as a native guise,
Entered their warring lands as one of them,
Employed their rhetoric and blague to raid
The towers of their most strategic lies.
