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The mad girl with the staring eyes and long white fingers

Hooked in the stones of the wall,

The storm-wrack hair and screeching mouth: does it matter, Cassandra,

Whether the people believe

Your bitter fountain? Truly men hate the truth, they'd liefer

Meet a tiger on the road.

Therefore the poets honey their truth with lying; but religion—

Vendors and political men

Pour from the barrel, new lies on the old, and are praised for kindly

Wisdom. Poor bitch be wise.

No: you'll still mumble in a corner a crust of truth, to men

And gods disgusting—you and I, Cassandra.

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