Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams

Homer is my example and his unchristened heart.

My temptation is quiet. Here at life's end Neither loose imagination Nor the mill of the mind Consuming its rag and bone, Can make the truth known.

How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics?

An intellectual hatred is the worst, So let her think opinions are accursed. Have I not seen the loveliest woman born Out of the mouth of Plenty's horn, Because of her opinionated mind Barter that horn and every good By quiet natures understood For an old bellows full of angry wind?

We are fastened to a dying animal.

We taste and feel and see the truth. We do not reason ourselves into it.