_Nature Silenced_[3] Around my neck, on chain of hair, The timepiece hangs--a sign of care. For me the starry course is o'er, No sun and shadow as before, No cockcrow summons at the door, For nature tells the time no more! Too many clocks her voice have drowned, And droning law has dulled her sound. 49. _The Sage Speaks._ Strange to the crowd, yet useful to the crowd, I still pursue my path, now sun, now cloud, But always pass above the crowd! 50. _He lost his Head...._ She now has wit--how did it come her way? A man through her his reason lost, they say. His head, though wise ere to this pastime lent, Straight to the devil--no, to woman went! 51. _A Pious Wish._ "Oh, might all keys be lost! 'Twere better so And in all keyholes might the pick-lock go!" Who thus reflects ye may as--picklock know. 52. _Foot Writing._ I write not with the hand alone, My foot would write, my foot that capers, Firm, free and bold, it's marching on Now through the fields, now through the papers. 53. "_Human, All-too-Human._" ... Shy, gloomy, when your looks are backward thrust, Trusting the future where yourself you trust, Are you an eagle, mid the nobler fowl, Or are you like Minerva's darling owl? 54. _To my Reader._ Good teeth and a digestion good I wish you--these you need, be sure! And, certes, if my book you've stood, Me with good humour you'll endure. 55. _The Realistic Painter._ "To nature true, complete!" so he begins. Who complete Nature to his canvas _wins?_ Her tiniest fragment's endless, no constraint Can know: he paints just what his _fancy_ pins: What does his fancy pin? What he _can_ paint! 56. _Poets' Vanity._ Glue, only glue to me dispense, The wood I'll find myself, don't fear! To give four senseless verses sense-- That's an achievement I revere! 57. _Taste in Choosing._ If to choose my niche precise Freedom I could win from fate, I'd be in midst of Paradise-- Or, sooner still--before the gate! 58. _The Crooked Nose._ Wide blow your nostrils, and across The land your nose holds haughty sway: So you, unhorned rhinoceros, Proud mannikin, fall forward aye! The one trait with the other goes: A straight pride and a crooked nose. 59. _The Pen is Scratching...._ The pen is scratching: hang the pen! To scratching I'm condemned to sink! I grasp the inkstand fiercely then And write in floods of flowing ink. How broad, how full the stream's career! What luck my labours doth requite! 'Tis true, the writing's none too clear-- What then? Who reads the stuff I write? 60. _Loftier Spirits._