I will never express an opinion again.
She erupted in fury.
Okay then, I’ll tell you later, what’s the hurry?
If I’m alone, and it is beautiful, I will look,
And anything I like, will go in my book.
When I remember a strange dream I had,
One that makes me at the same time deeply happy and deeply sad,
As I struggle to remember it—I noticed this just yesterday—
Remembering a dream, by a dream smitten,
I struggle to remember, not as in life, but as if I were trying to remember something I had written.
So dreams have menacing, lucid images,
But the brain which lives with words
Is the brain that dreams,
And reality is nothing but light and dark
Mingling in beauty, and shaped by thoughts of schemes:
“I will make love to Ruth when she is alone in the corn,
And I will awake without dreams or disagreement. And all that seems
Will be nothing. And someone will be born.”
Or whatever grotesque ideas we say to ourselves when we are alone.
All opinions voiced will be contradicted, or marked down as vice.
And if it finds agreement, that’s a waste. To speak or love a beauty twice.