Like grippt stick Still I sit: Eyes fixed on far small eyes, Full of it: On the old, broad face, The hung chin; Heavy arms, surplice Worn through and worn thin. Probe I the hid mind Under the gross flesh: Clutch at poetic words, Follow their mesh Scarce heaving breath. Clutch, marvel, wonder, Till the words end. Stilled is the muttered thunder: The hard, few people wake, Gather their books and go Whether their hearts could break— How can I know?
– Richard Hughes, 1920