I will find the source of the streams of the sun to lave my feet and my hair,
And stoop to drink at the brimming brink of the wells of the moon!
(Never shalt thou go flying! but stay in thy agelong bond
And stifle the starting pinions that scorn the way of the feet,
Or if thy wild young folly still dreams to compass what lies beyond
When thou clasp a cloud thou shalt find it thy shroud and thy winding-sheet.)
SILENCE
Words and the body always have been much pain to me,