His life is a watch or a vision Between a sleep and a sleep.

Forget that I remember And dream that I forget.

There grows No herb of help to heal a coward heart.

Stately, kindly, lordly friend Condescend Here to sit by me.

The more congenial page of some tenth-rate poeticule worn out with failure after failure and now squat in his hole like the tailless fox, he is curled up to snarl and whimper beneath the inaccessible vine of song.

But now, you are twain, you are cloven apart Flesh of his flesh, but heart of my heart.

Thou has conquered, O pale Galilean.