Is known familiar as a city’s streets; The little muscle twitching back the lip, Rejoicing in a name that spans the page. But man in mind, that is not seen nor felt, But only knows he is, through consciousness. He sees an outside world, with all its throng Of busy people who care not for him, And only few that know he does exist; And yet he feels the independent world Is but effect produced upon himself, The Universe is packed within his mind, His mind within its little house of clay. What is that mind? Has it a formal shape? And has it substance, color, weight, or force? What are the chains that bind it to the flesh? That never break except in death, though oft The faculties are sent far out through space? Where is it placed, in head, or hands, or feet? And can it have existence without place? And if a place, it must extension have, And if extended, it is matter proven. Poor man! he has but mind to view mind with, And might as well attempt to see the eye Without a mirror! True, faint consciousness Holds up a little glass, wherein he sees A few vague facts that cannot satisfy. For these, and their attendant laws, have fought The mental champions of the world till now That each may deck them in his livery, And claim them as his own discovery. Hedged in, man does not know that he is paled, And struggles fiercely ’gainst the boundaries, And strives to get a glimpse of those far realms Of thought sublime, where his short wings would sink With helpless fluttering, through the vast profound. Upon the coals of curiosity, A writhing worm, he’s laid; and twists and turns, To find, in vain, the healing salve of Truth.