Poems of Later Life: 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 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.
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