AN ENIGMA |
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AN ENIGMA
"S eldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,
"Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
Through all the flimsy things we see at once
As easily as through a Naples bonnet -
Trash of all trash! - how can a lady don it?
Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff-
Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."
And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
The general tuckermanities are arrant
Bubbles - ephemeral and so transparent -
But this is, now, - you may depend upon it -
Stable, opaque, immortal - all by dint
Of the dear names that lie concealed within `t.
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