FLASHES OF MADNESS

II.

When thou seeëst me spend hours

Holding in a feverish glance

Thy mouth or teeth, or thy hand,

And notest how my soul devours

With a sleepness like to trance

The commonest things that stand

And askest what in them I see

That into each my spirit delves

As if each had a mystery,

Thou err'st in thy conjecturings,

For what ever obsesses me

Is not things in their weary selves

But the being there of things.