Lean on the ropes; you need not ask how many will swing dumb, nor care such limping courses are a task not for the arm but for the air. An iron fist that clubs a shell of iron on the lips, may tongue with no more music than a bell cast memberless or never rung. But let the poems hope to speak though impotent or cracked and sour (or draught and rust their only sound). The willing ear is not so weak: it knows of tigers in the tower that roar the homing changes round.