This House whose frame be flesh and bone,
mortar'd with blood and faced with skin,
The home of sickness, dolours, age;
unclean without, impure within:

Sans ray to cheer its inner gloom,
the chambers haunted by the Ghost,
Darkness his name, a cold dumb Shade
stronger than all the heav'nly host.

This tube, an enigmatic pipe,
whose end was laid before begun,
That lengthens, broadens, shrinks and breaks;
--puzzle, machine, automaton;

The first of Pots the Potter made
by Chrysorrhoas' blue-green wave;*
Methinks I see him smile to see
what guerdon to the world he gave!

* The Abana, River of Damascus.

How Life is dim, unreal, vain,
like scenes that round the drunkard reel;
How "Being" meaneth not to be;
to see and hear, smell, taste and feel.

A drop in Ocean's boundless tide,
unfathom'd waste of agony;