Behind the placid front of use
The baffled whims move to and fro;
We fear to let these genii go....
Sober-faced, we carry hidden within us something for which the poet has found one of those rare things in the language, the perfect phrase; it is
The golden nonsense of the heart.
Perhaps we also are like the Tom-cat and, on our occasions, “chant the hate of a million years.”
He will lie on a rug to-morrow
And lick his silky fur,
And veil the brute in his yellow eyes
And play he’s tame, and purr.