"By what cruel hands smitten thy ghost's o' three?
Doth not, but by silver-lace beams entwine,
As gallant a knight under the Sun's sheen;
Moved by Nightmares, Death-rays and a Cat-Cry.
Mad, mad, mad! By me think it not--a shade--
Here tell, I watch'd and coil'd, made mad by They!
Them, in th'corner o' mine own Masquerade,
Electrified by Pen, steady light and...They!
Acumen, superior to Giants,
Specimens acute by Nature's chagrin,
Call mine own murkiness defiant!
Truth by genius, let the future stand in!
Stand We--Us--to mock what this Light sheds,
Wanton nigh, but to cocoon b'fore worms bed,
And gawk, righteously, at the names these Lights shed,
To crow and mock the leavings of Worm beds,
Conundrum made quaint in valiant scorn,
Away with reflections and longing dower;
Tethered to History's incandescent Shore,
Speak, "Evermore," in Future's ling'ring hour."
Thus, spake The Shade.