Darkness hides the goal of Psyche's mission;
For the eyes that tears so often gall
Reach not to the summit of completion
Where illusion's vaporous veil doth fall!



FROM CLAUDIUS.

THE MOTHER BY THE CRADLE
CONTENTMENT


_THE MOTHER BY THE CRADLE_.

Sleep, baby boy, sleep sweet, secure;
Thy father's very miniature!
That art thou, though thy father goes
And says that thou hast not his nose.

This very moment here was he,
His face o'er thine did pose
And said--Much has he sure of me,
But no, 'tis not my nose.

I think myself, it is too small,
But it is _his_ nose after all;
For if thy nose his nose be not,
Whence came the nose that thou hast got?