I like the mule: his sides are thin. He takes his ease in no man’s inn. When contrarieties are thick About his mind’s eye, he will kick; Men bewail their false position; Closing with the mule’s tradition. He skirts the treeless precipice. The former groan at that and this: Though steeped in incredulity, He treads on “nothing” safely; he Erects his body as a hedge Between their bodies and the edge.