II
Oft in the groping night I am afraid,
For this, mine opaque organism, seems
A glass, a mere reflex of trooping dreams—
A polished boss where images parade.
And to see these doth make my senses cold—
This globe become a visionary face—
This little spinning soul of me—in space—
I dare not think of what that space may hold!
Such thoughts are as the charnel mists that rise