"How divine is utterance!" she said. "As we to the brutes, poets are to us." - George Meredith

Enter these enchanted woods,
You who dare.
Nothing harms beneath the leaves
More than waves a swimmer cleaves.
Toss your heart up with the lark,
Foot at peace with mouse and worm,
Fair you fare.
Only at a dread of dark
Quaver, and they quit their form:
Thousand eyeballs under hoods
Have you by the hair.
Enter these enchanted woods,
You who dare.

Behold the life at ease; it drifts,
The sharpened life commands its course.

Speech is the small change of Silence.