An Enigma

„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 Petrarchanities 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.

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