'Dept droppings of a dear, daft delving deep,
And soften in the velvet warm, content,
Resisting urges strong to turn and sleep.
So susurrate the lies of scoff ill-spent,
'Dept croppings of an ear a la Van Gogh,
And often in the melted swarm, intent
Desisting purges wrong that churn and tow.
So susurrate the why's of soph's descent,
'Dept coppings of a plea without a crime,
And coffins for the belted harm portent,
Assisting surging throngs that burn with time.
So susurrate, yet mostly mean much more,
Than whisperings would waft the feelings for.
"Who shall silence all the airs and madrigals that whisper softness in chambers?"
JOHN MILTON, from AREOPAGITICA
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