my comment:
come the fire-eve, labouring the tongue no more and let us away sorrowfully into fancy on the bed. the suffering-meat t'is my heart beats yet now storm-free. moment-free too. sunk in an ocean of absinth in place of beer during the ship's way. a strange wanderlust overcame me, and I perforce swam under; and i saw below the waves, the thousand wonderous moving panoramic visions of all round the earth's impermanent minds. what emotions in words above the seas have we? what is in a word upon the surface? sham fopperies and ostentations. without artifice of the verse, all words fall short in their glamour and become a usuary of meanings. Wouldst thou truly feel the dawn's care, if t'is but a signal for thy six o'clock time for toilette? addressing the dainty young face in the mirror, sadlier each day by the increase of blur, but not the ancient and joyful contour in the sky---clear Monarch's Weather, but without Monarch's eloquent conscience?
that how do human learn joyful speech at all if they had never fancied themselves songbirds in spring? Ever freer in a sky-paradise above earthly ties, freer than that one dismal doomsayer below it in its burning agony and deathless jealous; that is the oratory tongue? surely all words may fail one day in front of wonder-magic of the sentiments, indefinite experience of the immeasurably real and beautiful... the tongue chaseth after the bird: the bird flyeth past the destined places allotted to a human. no spell may be so mighty, as to captivate the fleeing space and time. in fine, all words are simply this, a sad and broken spell, a desparate yell, for what we uttereth we have already lost, the spirit of dead truth preserved in mystic symbolisms: a verse of true life's reminiscence.