How can I think, or edge my thoughts to action, When the miserly press of each day's need Aches to a narrowness of spilled distraction My soul appalled at the world's work's time-greed?...
As a bad orator, badly o'er-book-skilled, Doth overflow his purpose with made heat, And, like a clock, winds with withoutness willed What should have been an inner instinct's feat;...
Thy words are torture to me, that scarce grieve thee-- That entire death shall null my entire thought; And I feel torture, not that I believe thee, But that I cannot disbelieve thee not....
How many masks wear we, and undermasks, Upon our countenance of soul, and when, If for self-sport the soul itself unmasks, Knows it the last mask off and the face plain?...