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CONSCIOUS am I in my chamberOf a shapeless friend,He doth not attest by postureNor confirm by word.
Neither place need I present him,Fitter courtesyHospitable intuitionOf his company.
Presence is his furthest license,Neither he to meNor myself to him by accentForfeit probity.
Weariness of him were quainterThan monotonyKnew a particle of space'sVast society.
Neither if he visit Other—Does he dwell—or nay—Know I,But instinct reports HimImmortality.
