"You see, my friends, I tired of this
Wild doubling in the chase of bliss.
Pards miss their spring as men their kiss,
And yet the quarry dies.
I learned the world's least mortal god,
Whose epitaph is Ichabod,
May sport till noon, but if he nod
Shall never more arise.
Then, caravan, you passed, and I
Have solved my riddle with a cry: