Faraway peals, drowsy Bat self-seeleth
An’ for each strike, a glimpse unlike
Sparks o’ truth meet where sight feeleth.
Can the beast foresee, at least,
That no Light ought to smite?
Alas!, the answer might convey none,
For such errand dwelleth upon fright
And ne’er a demand hath then begun.
Understand this reveal, as thou canst:
Of all secrecy maketh he
Aristocratic mystery!