You know, or don’t know, that great Bacon saith,
“Fling up a straw, ’twill show the way the wind blows;”
And such a straw, borne on by human breath,
Is Poesy, according as the Mind glows;
A paper kite which flies ’twixt Life and Death,
A shadow which the onward Soul behind throws:
And mine’s a bubble, not blown up for praise,
But just to play with, as an infant plays.