HE—of truth the wooer?
 Not still, stiff, smooth and cold,
 Become an image,
 A godlike statue,
 Set up in front of temples,
 As a God’s own door-guard:
 Nay! hostile to all such truthfulness-statues,
 In every desert homelier than at temples,
 With cattish wantonness,
 Through every window leaping
 Quickly into chances,
 Every wild forest a-sniffing,
 Greedily-longingly, sniffing,
 That thou, in wild forests,
 ‘Mong the motley-speckled fierce creatures,
 Shouldest rove, sinful-sound and fine-coloured,
 With longing lips smacking,
 Blessedly mocking, blessedly hellish, blessedly bloodthirsty,
 Robbing, skulking, lying—roving