Truly Men Hate The Truth; They'd Liefer

I Hate My Verses, Every Line, Every Word. Oh Pale And Brittle Pencils Ever To Try One Grass-blade's Curve, Or The Throat Of One Bird That Clings To Twig, Ruffled Against White Sky. Oh Cracked And Twilight Mirrors Ever To Catch One Color, One Glinting Flash, Of The Splendor Of Things.

...science And Mathematics Run Parallel To Reality, They Symbolize It, They Squint At It, They Never Touch It: Consider What An Explosion Would Rock The Bones Of Men Into Little White Fragments And Unsky The World If Any Mind For A Moment Touch Truth.

If Millions Are Born Millions Must Die.

Still The Mind Smiles At Its Own Rebellions.

We Have To Live Like People In A Web Of Knives, We Mustn't Reach Out Our Hands Or We Get Them Gashed.