So, loath to suffer mute. We, peopling the void air, Make Gods to whom to impute The ills we ought to bear. - Matthew Arnold

Such a price The Gods exact for song; To become what we sing.

"Up the still, glistening beaches,
Up the creeks we will hie,
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry.
We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
At the white, sleeping town;
At the church on the hill-side — And then come back down.
Singing: "There dwells a loved one,
But cruel is she!
She left lonely for ever
The kings of the sea.

(from poem 'The Forsaken Merman')

On the mind of an adversary one never makes the faintest impression.