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 !

Success is counted sweetest by those ne'er succeed.

Consciousness is the only home of which we know.

The worm doth woo the mortal, death claims a living bride, Night unto day is married, morn unto eventide, Earth a merry damsel, and heaven a knight so true,And Earth is quite coquettish, and beseemeth in vain to sue.

I felt a clearing in my mindAs if my brain had split ;I tried to match it, seam by seam,But could not make them fit.The thought behind I strove to joinUnto the thought before,But sequence ravelled out of reachLike balls upon a floor.

To hear an Oriole singMay be a common thing —Or only a divine.It is not of the BirdWho sings the same, unheard,As unto Crowd —The Fashion of the EarAttireth that it hearIn Dun, or fair —So whether it be Rune,Or whether it be noneIs of within.The "Tune is in the Tree —"The Skeptic — showeth me —"No Sir! In Thee!

For each ecstatic instantWe must an anguish payIn keen and quivering ratioTo the ecstasy.For each beloved hourSharp pittances of years,Bitter contested farthingsAnd coffers heaped with tears.

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.