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One mitred Afternoon—None can avoid this purple—None evade this Crown!Coach, it insures, and footmen—Chamber, and state, and throng—Bells, also, in the villageAs we ride grand along!What dignified Attendants!What service when we pause!How loyally at partingTheir hundred hats they raise!Her pomp surpassing ermineWhen simple You, and I,Present our meek escutheonAnd claim the rank to die!

And dancing softly to HimselfHis Yarn of Pearl–unwinds–He plies from Nought to Nought–In unsubstantial Trade–Supplants our Tapestries with His–In half the period–An Hour to rear supremeHis Continents of Light–Then dangle from the Housewife’s Broom–His Boundaries–forgot–

Because there isn’t Room—Besides—it isn’t even—it slantsAnd People come—And put a Flower on it—And hang their faces so—We’re fearing that their Hearts will drop—And crush our pretty play—And so we move as farAs Enemies—away—Just looking round to see how farIt is—Occasionally—

Before it was imperative‘Twas all distinct to me –

When sense from spirit files away,And subterfuge is done;When that which is and that which wasApart, intrinsic, stand,And this brief tragedy of fleshIs shifted like a sand;When figures show their royal frontAnd mists are carved sway,–Behold the atom I FeferredTo all the lists of clay!

Upon an Arc of White.If Ruff it was of DameOr Shroud of GnomeHimself himself inform.Of ImmortalityHis StrategyWas Physiognomy.