No forest would hold him, nor dense jungle-grounds. Of rhymes do I dream? ’Tis my love orders me[225] Of love still to dream;--swain devoted to be: “Thyself make thou happy. Rhymes leave, now, alone. The rhyme I seek, thou art. I love thee, my own. 185 What’s rhyme, that thou turnest thy thoughts thitherward? Mere bramble on wall, hedging round our vineyard. I care not for words, for asseverations; My time if I pass in these sweet delusions. Suggestion there is, one, kept secret from men. To thee I’ll impart. Thou keep’st secrets, like pen. Suggestion occult, Abr’am knew not one jot. One secret, that Gabriel as yet conceives not. One mystery, to Jesus that never was known, In jealousy God spake to me all alone.”[226] 190 What do we with tongue? We affirm; we deny. I’m no affirmation; denial am I. In impersonality, person I find. In ungenerosity, goodness of mind. Earth’s potentates slaves are of their own slaves’ will. All mortals, mere corpses of dead corpses, still. Kings, subject are here to their own subjects’ whim. Man’s drunk with those intoxicated of him. The hunter of birds them entraps in his toils, Himself is then pounced on, despite of his foils. 195 A beauty makes prey of the men soft of heart. Sweethearts fall the victims of false lover’s dart. If lover thou see, know, a sweetheart he’s, too, ’Tis but a relation. Each one’s one of two. If thirst seeks for water in this wide domain, The water, on its side, the thirst courts again.