FRAGMENT.

We're German scholars poring over life,

As over a Greek manuscript that's torn

And stained beyond repair. Our eyes of horn

Read one or two poor letters; and what strife,

What books on books begotten for their sake!

But we enjoy it; and meanwhile neglect

The line that's left us perfect from the wrecked

Rich argosy, clear beyond doubts to make

Conjectures of. So in my universe

Of scribbled half-hid meanings you appear,

Sole perfect symbol of the highest sphere;

And life's great matrix crystal, whose depths nurse

Soul's infinite reflections, glows in you

With now uncertain radiance...