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He parts Himself—like Leaves
And then—He closes up
Then stands upon the Bonnet
Of Any Buttercup

And then He runs against
And oversets a Rose
And then does Nothing
Then away upon a Jib—He goes

And dangles like a Mote
Suspended in the Noon
Uncertain—to return Below
Or settle in the Moon

What come of Him—at Night
The privilege to say
Be limited by Ignorance
What come of Him—That Day

The Frost—possess the World
In Cabinets—be shown
A Sepulchre of quaintest Floss
An Abbey—a Cocoon