And feeling,[203] in a poet, is the source
Of others' feeling; but they are such liars,
And take all colours—like the hands of dyers.
LXXXVIII.
But words are things,[204] and a small drop of ink,
Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think;
'T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses
Instead of speech, may form a lasting link
Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces