Epigraphs
Everything profound loves the mask
What constitutes pretense is that, in the end,
you don’t know whether it’s pretense or not
As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying, What I do is me: for that I came.