WHAT is the firemist, but a thought,

A figment of the fervid brain?

Without thy thinking it is nought--

Insensible, inert, inane.

And though the thought be wise and warm,

And from its womb a world arise,

And in the world strange monsters swarm,

And grow to men with human eyes,

Still, thought is the creative force;

And though the forms of thought decay,

Natheless, the spiritual source,

Of thinking will not pass away.

Brain-cells? These, too, in thought exist,

How then can thought on these depend?

The force of thought will still persist,

Altho' these things of thought do end.