I had it from the first, and never lost it.

   On me—though guiltless as a child—the throng

   Flung all their mockery of thy naked being,—

   And is the likeness then so very strong?

   They shouted for

    my

   shadow—which, though seeing,

   They swore they saw not—and, still bent on wrong,

   Said they were blind; and then put forth their glee in

   Peals upon peals of laughter! Well—we bear

   With patience—aye, with joy—the conscience clear.

   And what—what is the Shadow? may I ask ye,

   Who am myself so wearyingly asked.

   Is it too high a problem, then, to task ye?

   And shall not the malignant world be tasked?

   The flights of nineteen thousand days unmask ye,

   They have brought wisdom—in whose trains I basked,

   And while I gave to shadows, being—saw

   Being, as shadows, from life’s scene withdraw.

   Give me thy hand, Schlemihl—take mine, my friend:

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