I aimed my pebble, but myself
Was all the one that fell.
Was it Goliath was too large,
Or only I too small?




XXXIV.

A shady friend for torrid days
Is easier to find
Than one of higher temperature
For frigid hour of mind.

The vane a little to the east
Scares muslin souls away;
If broadcloth breasts are firmer
Than those of organdy,

Who is to blame? The weaver?
Ah! the bewildering thread!
The tapestries of paradise
So notelessly are made!




XXXV.