Lawrence
Hall, HSG
Dispatches for
the Colonial Office
The Stone, the Shell,
and the Lance
-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
