from A Dearth of Prose
'tis to be sought, but never seen,
touched vainly in the vagrant dream;
the dripping comb; the wild despair
to find it not here anywhere.
Is to be chased, the gilded fly:
but winters wake, and insects die.
A pass of auburn/scarlet hair
all gray! are you aware
the whispers loud, not long:
O! let me join the song!