Slacken our strings, disorient ourselves,
And turn our ears to huge conchyliar valves
To hear the shell-hum that would fain be sea.
O guarding thorn of life’s dehiscent bud,
Exasperation! Did we clip thee close,
Disarm ourselves with non-resistent shears,
And leave our minds demassachusetted,
What fence ’gainst inroad of the spouting throng?
For Fame’s a bird that in her wayward sweep
Gossips to all; then, raven-like, comes home