THE BALLADE OF THE SUBCONSCIOUS SELF

WHO suddenly calls to our ken The knowledge that should not be there; Who charms Mr. Stead with the pen, Of the Prince of the Powers of the Air; Who makes Physiologists stare— Is he ghost, is he demon, or elf, Who fashions the dream of the fair? It is just the Subconscious Self.

He’s the ally of Medicine Men Who consult the Australian bear, And ’tis he, with his lights on the fen, Who helps Jack o’ Lanthorn to snare The peasants of Devon, who swear Under Commonwealth, Stuart, or Guelph, That they never had half such a scare— It is just the Subconscious Self.

It is he, from his cerebral den, Who raps upon table and chair, Who frightens the housemaid, and then Slinks back, like a thief, to his lair: ’Tis the Brownie (according to Mair) Who rattles the pots on the shelf, But the Psychical sages declare “It is just the Subconscious Self.”

Prince, each of us all is a pair— The Conscious, who labours for pelf, And the other, who charmed Mr. Blair, It is just the Subconscious Self.