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Rh Enough to thaw her cream, and scorch his beard. ’Twas little matter. I could pass them by Indifferently, not fearing to be known. No danger of being wrecked upon a friend, And forced to take an iceberg for an isle! The very English, here, must wait to learn To hang the cobweb of their gossip out And catch a fly. I’m happy. It’s sublime, This perfect solitude of foreign lands! To be, as if you had not been till then, And were then, simply that you chose to be: To spring up, not be brought forth from the ground, Like grasshoppers at Athens, and skip thrice Before a woman makes a pounce on you And plants you in her hair!—possess yourself, A new world all alive with creatures new, New sun, new moon, new flowers, new people—ah, And be possessed by none of them! No right In one, to call your name, enquire your where, Or what you think of Mister Some-one’s book, Or Mister Other’s marriage, or decease, Or how’s the headache which you had last week, Or why you look so pale still, since it’s gone? —Such most surprising riddance of one’s life Comes next one’s death; it’s disembodiment Without the pang. I marvel, people choose To stand stock-still like fakirs, till the moss Grows on them, and they cry out, self-admired, ‘How verdant and how virtuous!’ Well, I’m glad; Or should be, if grown foreign to myself