An Antinomy

The heart being dead, the mind must carry on.

It is as if the shed skin of the snake

Should keep its motion and be still alive,

Possessing form and semblance-but were gone

The dangerous colors and the eyes awake,

And the slow coils that sudden death contrive.

But if the mind have ceased to body forth

The motions of the heart in copious Form-

When words have failed, and only time is kind:

'What image then shall capture the true worth

Of that imprisoned, self-consuming storm,

The aimless lightnings and the thunder blind?