What say'st thou? Man is hard,--but woman? And thy tears,
Who has been drinking? And into what ear so good
Dost pour thy woes for it to pour in other ears?

Ah, others! ah, thyself! Gulled with such curious ease,
That used to dream (Doth not the soul with laughter fill?)
One knows not what poetic, delicate decease,--
Thou sort of angel with the paralytic will!

But now what are thy plans, thine aims? Art thou of might?
Or has long shedding tears disqualified thy heart?
The tree is scarcely hardy, judging it at sight,
And by thy looks no topping conqueror thou art.

So awkward, too! With the additional offence
Of being now a sort of dazed idyllic bard
That poses in a window, contemplating thence
The silly noon-day sky with an impressed regard.

So totally the same in this extreme decay!
But in thy place a being with some sense, pardy,
Would wish at least to lead the dance, since he must pay
The fiddlers,--at some risk of flutt'ring passers-by!

Canst not, by rummaging within thy consciousness,
Find some bright vice to bare, as 't were a flashing sword?
Some gay, audacious vice, which wield with dexterousness,
And make to shine, and shoot red lightnings Heavenward!

Hast one, or more? If more, the better! And plunge in,