This House whose frame be flesh and bone, mortar’d with blood and faced with skin,
The home of sickness, dolours, age; unclean without, impure within:

Sans ray to cheer its inner gloom, the chambers haunted by the Ghost,
Darkness his name, a cold dumb Shade stronger than all the heav’nly host.

This tube, an enigmatic pipe, whose end was laid before begun,
That lengthens, broadens, shrinks and breaks; —puzzle, machine, automaton;

The first of Pots the Potter made by Chrysorrhoas’ blue-green wave;*
Methinks I see him smile to see what guerdon to the world he gave!

How Life is dim, unreal, vain, like scenes that round the drunkard reel;
How “Being” meaneth not to be; to see and hear, smell, taste and feel.