I must seek out conventions robe
To wrap around my nakedness
For I discern the piercing probe
Of malice, mirth and bitterness
That round this weary spirit play
Of thoughts I cannot rise above
Of minds so human that they sway
And eyes that cannot look with love.

Tis not my wish to don that gown
To stand with false somatology
To play the part of fool and clown
And hide with false apology
But this weak cry can never ring
Above the rushing, roaring tide
It quakes before that fearful sting
And from all mankind seek to hide.