The Spirit lasts—but in what mode— Below, the Body speaks, But as the Spirit furnishes— Apart, it never talks— The Music in the Violin Does not emerge alone But Arm in Arm with Touch, yet Touch Alone—is not a Tune— The Spirit lurks within the Flesh Like Tides within the Sea That make the Water live, estranged What would the Either be? Does that know—now—or does it cease— That which to this is done, Resuming at a mutual date With every future one? Instinct pursues the Adamant, Exacting this Reply— Adversity if it may be, or Wild Prosperity, The Rumor’s Gate was shut so tight Before my Mind was sown, Not even a Prognostic’s Push Could make a Dent thereon—
