An Enigma

45

«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.

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