Book Description: I.Whether we write or speak or do but lookWe are ever unapparent. What we areCannot be transfused into word or book.Our soul from us is infinitely far.However much we give our thoughts the willTo be our soul and gesture it abroad,Our hearts are incommunicable still.In what we show ourselves we are ignored.The abyss from soul to soul cannot be bridgedBy any skill of thought or trick of seeming.Unto our very selves we are abridgedWhen we would utter to our thought our being. We are our dreams of ourselves, souls by gleams, And each to each other dreams of others' dreams.II.If that apparent part of life's delightOur tingled flesh-sense circumscribes were seenBy aught save reflex and co-carnal sight,Joy, flesh and life might prove but a gross screen.Haply Truth's body is no eyable being,Appearance even as appearance lies,Haply our close, dark, vague, warm sense of seeingIs the choked vision of blindfolded eyes.Wherefrom what comes to thought's sense of life? Nought.All is either the irrational world we seeOr some aught-else whose being-unknown doth rotIts use for our thought's use. Whence taketh me A qualm-like ache of life, a body-deep Soul-hate of what we seek and what we weep.III.When I do think my meanest line shall beMore in Time's use than my creating whole,That future eyes more clearly shall feel meIn this inked page than in my direct soul;When I conjecture put to make me seeingGood readers of me in some aftertime,Thankful to some idea of my beingThat doth not even my with gone true soul rime;An anger at the essence of the world,That makes this thus, or thinkable this wise,Takes my soul by the throat and makes it hurledIn nightly horrors of despaired surmise, And I become the mere sense of a rage That lacks the very words whose waste might 'suage.