The silence now funereal of a pallSpreads more than one fold on this furniture Which must with lack of memory bestir A collapsing of the central pedestal.
Our old triumphal sport of the magic book, Hieroglyphs exciting many still To spread with wings a too familiar thrill! -- Bury it rather in a cupboard-nook.
From smiling loathed original uproar To those of mighty splendors has sprung forth In temple courtyard for their image fashioned,
Loud golden horns aswoon on vellum, the god Richard Wagner glittering consecration Ill silenced even by ink in sibylline sobs.