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—
