To hang our head ostensibly,And subsequent to findThat such was not the postureOf our immortal mind,Affords the sly presumptionThat, in so dense a fuzz,You, too, take cobweb attitudesUpon a plane of gauze !

I had no time to hate, becauseThe grave would hinder me,And life was not so ample ICould finish enmity.Nor had I time to love ; but sinceSome industry must be,The little toil of love, I thought,Was large enough for me.

We play at paste,Till qualified for pearl,Then drop the paste,And deem ourself a fool.The shapes, though, were similar,And our new handsLearned gem-tacticsPractising sands.

The past is such a curious creature,To look her in the faceA transport may reward us,Or a disgrace.Unarmed if any meet her,I charge them, fly !Her rusty ammunitionMight yet reply !