"Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,
"Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
Through all the flimsy things we see at once
As easily as through a Naples bonnet -
Trash of all trash! - how 'can' a lady don it?
Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff -
Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."
And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
The general tuckermanities are arrant
Bubbles - ephemeral and 'so' transparent -
But 'this is', now - you may depend upon it -
Stable, opaque, immortal - all by dint
Of the dear names that lie concealed within't.
[See note after previous poem.]
1847.
