Sonnet VIII

How many masks wear we, and undermasks,

Upon our countenance of soul, and when,

If for self-sport the soul itself unmasks,

Knows it the last mask off and the face plain?

The true mask feels no inside to the

But looks out of the mask by co-masked eyes.

Whatever consciousness begins the

The task's accepted use to sleepness ties.

Like a child frighted by its mirrored faces,

Our souls, that children are, being thought-losing,

Foist otherness upon their seen

And get a whole world on their forgot causing;  And, when a thought would unmask our soul's masking,  Itself goes not unmasked to the unmasking.