Truth is no historian, to touch the random scene with probability’s enchantment. She is the muse who serves herself, an eye that strays not after passing sights, an enemy not lightly brought to battle, a friend not lightly given drink, primed to the banquet’s need of company—no friend at reach of chance or love at distance of bold lover’s legs, neared by mercurial familiarities: but in the selfless thought a thought most far, yet as man’s own, by selflessness, by covenant, of peace eventual—one sense, the words which importune, and the words which dispose.