A lens of crystal whose transparence calms 
Queer stars to clarity, and disentangles 
Fox-fires to form austere refracted angles: 
A texture polished on the horny palms 
Of vast equivocal creatures, beast or human: 
A flint, a substance finer-grained than snow, 
Graved with the Graces in intaglio 
To set sarcastic sigil on the woman. 

This for the mind, and for the little rest 
A hollow scooped to blackness in the breast, 
The simulacrum of a cloud, a feather: 
Instead of stone, instead of sculptured strength, 
This soul, this vanity, blown hither and thither 
By trivial breath, over the whole world's length.