An Enigma

"Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce

⁠Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.

Through all the flimsy things we see at once

⁠As easily as through a Naples bonnet—

⁠Trash of all trash!—how can a lady don it?

Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff—

Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff

⁠Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."