WHEN you and I our final Match have play’d,
Think not the ever-springing Green shall fade;
Which of our Coming and Departure heeds
As Caddies heed the Bag,—their Quarter paid.
XXXIX
A MOMENT’S Flight—a momentary Flick
Of Being from the Providential Stick,
And Lo!—the phantom human Sphere has reacht
The Nothing it set out from—Ah, be quick!
