The flying tidings whirled.
How much can come
And much can go,
And yet abide the world!




XXVII.

THE SPIDER.

A spider sewed at night
Without a light
Upon an arc of white.
If ruff it was of dame
Or shroud of gnome,
Himself, himself inform.
Of immortality
His strategy
Was physiognomy.




XXVIII.

I know a place where summer strives
With such a practised frost,
She each year leads her daisies back,