517
He parts Himself—like Leaves
And then—He closes up
Then stands upon the Bonnet
Of Any Buttercup
And then He runs against
And oversets a Rose
And then does Nothing
Then away upon a Jib—He goes
And dangles like a Mote
Suspended in the Noon
Uncertain—to return Below
Or settle in the Moon
What come of Him—at Night
The privilege to say
Be limited by Ignorance
What come of Him—That Day
The Frost—possess the World
In Cabinets—be shown
A Sepulchre of quaintest Floss
An Abbey—a Cocoon
He parts Himself—like Leaves
And then—He closes up
Then stands upon the Bonnet
Of Any Buttercup
And then He runs against
And oversets a Rose
And then does Nothing
Then away upon a Jib—He goes
And dangles like a Mote
Suspended in the Noon
Uncertain—to return Below
Or settle in the Moon
What come of Him—at Night
The privilege to say
Be limited by Ignorance
What come of Him—That Day
The Frost—possess the World
In Cabinets—be shown
A Sepulchre of quaintest Floss
An Abbey—a Cocoon
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