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Poem	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 --
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