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FERISHTAH'S FANCIES.
Nowise affecting flesh that's dead and dry!
Thou wincest? Take correction twice, amend
Next time thy nomenclature! Call white—white!'
The sourly-Sage for whom life's best was death
Lived out his seventy years, looked hale, laughed loud,
Liked—above all—his dinner,—lied, in short."
Thou wincest? Take correction twice, amend
Next time thy nomenclature! Call white—white!'
The sourly-Sage for whom life's best was death
Lived out his seventy years, looked hale, laughed loud,
Liked—above all—his dinner,—lied, in short."
"Lied is a rough phrase: say he fell from truth
In climbing towards it!—sure less faulty so
Than had he sat him down and stayed content
With thy safe orthodoxy 'White, all white,
White everywhere be certain I should see
Did I but understand how white is black,
As clearer sense than mine would.' Clearer sense,—
Whose may that be? Mere human eyes I boast,
In climbing towards it!—sure less faulty so
Than had he sat him down and stayed content
With thy safe orthodoxy 'White, all white,
White everywhere be certain I should see
Did I but understand how white is black,
As clearer sense than mine would.' Clearer sense,—
Whose may that be? Mere human eyes I boast,
