And lunge thereat,—

 Let out at one swift thrust

 The cunning arch-delusion of the dust

 I so mistrust,

 But that I fear I should disclose a face

 Wearing the trace

 Of my own human guise,

 Piteous, unharmful, loving, sad, and wise,

 With the speaking eyes.

9

 I would the house were rid of his grim pranks,

 Moaning from banks

 Of pine trees in the moon,

 Startling the silence like a demoniac loon

 At dead of noon,

 Or whispering his fool-talk to the leaves

 About my eaves.

 And yet how can I know

 ’T is not a happy Ariel masking so

 In mocking woe?

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