1. 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 lie concealed within ’t.