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