That Coach capacious all Infinity were,
And these the fabulous figments of a dream.
Mad for escape; frenzied each breathless mote,
Lest rouse the Old Enemy from his death-still swoon,
Lest crack that whip again—they fly, they float,
Scamper, breathe—'Paradise!' abscond, are gone....
AN EPITAPH
LAST, Stone, a little yet;
And then this dust forget.
But thou, fair Rose, bloom on.