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If you would read my riddle
My First is singular at
best:
More plural is my Second:
My Third is far the
pluralest -
So plural-plural, I protest
It scarcely can be
reckoned!
My First is followed by a
bird:
My Second by believers
In magic art: my simple
Third
Follows, too often, hopes
absurd
And plausible deceivers.
My First to get at wisdom
tries -
A failure melancholy!
My Second men revered as
wise:
My Third from heights of
wisdom flies
To depths of frantic folly.
My First is ageing day by
day:
My Second's age is ended:
My Third enjoys an age,
they say,
That never seems to fade
away,
Through centuries extended.
My Whole? I need a poet's
pen
To paint her myriad phases:
The monarch, and the slave,
of men -
A mountain-summit, and a
den
Of dark and deadly mazes -
A flashing light - a
fleeting shade -
Beginning, end, and middle
Of all that human art hath
made
Or wit devised! Go, seek
HER aid,
If you would read my
riddle!
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