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AN ENIGMA
"
Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,
Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
"
Through all the flimsy things we see at once
As easily as through a Naples bonnet--
Trash of all trash!--how can a lady don it?
Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff-
Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."
And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
The general tuckermanities are arrant
Bubbles--ephemeral and so transparent--
But this is, now,--you may depend upon it--
Stable, opaque, immortal--all by dint
Of the dear names that lie concealed within 't.
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