What thou fear’st I sha’n’t deceive,
For no cure can shape the pure
And no pure can hope to weave.
To fathom change is mere belief
In hazard, thus God hath carved
The Epitaph of a greater cliff:
Sa’dst antipoetically, liv’dst alone
The amativeness o’ thy nude tone!
Veil thee, hence thy fullness canst be
To truth lone-diffused becalm an’ prone;
Ta’en gloomy weepers, thou shalt see
Sherlocks of thy wretchedness begone!
Truth is high and jeereth in mimicry
Absolute hoarder, ‘tis swelling cloaked
Mesmeric, if seen while ambling by
Fadeth to ennui whene’er softly poked.