BY LAWRENCE HALL

(See William Wordsworth, Prelude, Book V, line 70 and following)

Mathematics were always quarried stones to me

A chaos of integers, carries, and sums

Cascading down a dusty, crumbling slope

And piled up as a useless heap of rubble

But words, layered words, curving and dancing words

Are shimmering shells in stilly tidal pools

There waiting for my eyes, my thoughts, my speech

To play them, work them, hold them as chalices of truth

And the lance? The knight, he wields his wicked lance

Only to herd poor prisoners into algebra