The mad girl with the staring eyes and long white fingers
Hooked in the stones of the wall,
The storm-wrack hair and the screeching mouth: does it
matter, Cassandra,
Whether the people believe
Your bitter fountain? Truly men hate the truth; they’d
Meet a tiger on the road.
Therefore the poets honey their truth with lying; but
Venders and political men
Pour from the barrel, new lies on the old, and are praised
for kindly
Wisdom. Poor bitch, be wise.
No: you’ll still mumble in a corner a crust of truth, to
And gods disgusting.—You and I, Cassandra.

Robinson Jeffers