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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 he concealed within 't.

by Edgar Allan Poe
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