Lawrence Hall, HSG
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Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                             The Stone, the Shell, and the Lance

       -Wordsworth, The Prelude, Book V, lines 70 and following

Mathematics were always quarried stones to me
A chaos of integers, carries, and sums
Cascading down a dusty, crumbling *****
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