All that enters through my eye
My intellect must simplify;
For nothing in my mind can be a
Guest unless it’s an idea:
A spiritual accident
That has no weight and no extent.
For I am half an angel and
Must alter what I understand,
And rid it of the stubborn stuff
That makes it hard or makes it tough,
And turn its essence into air,
And hoard it underneath my hair.
But if some night my intellect
Should fail its function and neglect
To give some object, as it ought,
The proper lightness of a thought, —
Oh, how I’d toss around in bed
With moons and mountains in my head!
Oh, how I’d yell aloud in pain
With bulls and boulders in my brain!