You know, or don’t know, that great Bacon saith,
‘Fling up a straw, ’twill show the way the wind blows.’
And such a straw, borne on by human breath,
Is poesy, according as the mind glows
A paper kite, which flies ’twixt life and death,
A shadow which the onward soul behind throws.
And mine’s a bubble not blown up for praise,
But just to play with, as an infant plays.