In dreamy clouds the truth is shown.
In butterflies: the heart.
Etiolated words are thrown
About without a deeper art.

But in the darkest enthymeme,
A syllogism sown
Entwines the trellis of the dream
And weighs each Lepidopter flown.

For him the laughter in his soul
Is loudest when, alone,
He curls his mind about an old
Encephalonic tome.