THE WHITE SHADOW.
We are no other than a moving row Of magic shadow-shapes, that come and go Round with this sun-illumined lantern, held In midnight by the master of the show.
A moment's halt--a momentary taste Of being from the well amid the waste-- And lo! the phantom caravan has reached The nothing it set out from. Oh, make haste!
Ah, Love! could you and I with him conspire To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire, Would not we shatter it to bits--and then Remould it nearer to the heart's desire!
FITZGERALD.