ON THE DEATH OF A METAPHYSICIAN

Unhappy dreamer, who outwinged in flight

The pleasant region of the things I love,

And soared beyond the sunshine, and above

The golden cornfields and the dear and bright

Warmth of the hearth,— blasphemer of delight,

Was your proud bosom not at peace with Jove,

That you sought, thankless for his guarded grove,

The empty horror of abysmal night?

Ah, the thin air is cold above the moon!

I stood and saw you fall, befooled in death,

As, in your numbed spirit's fatal swoon,

You cried you were a god, or were to be;

I heard with feeble moan your boastful breath

Bubble from depths of the Icarian sea.