To drive each reasonable thought
Into the ground,
Tall and close like a palisade —
A row of clear conclusions neatly peeled

Of every urgency —

Is to be
Ultimately delayed
Beyond the reach of impulse;
Is to be
Safe ... yet terribly dismayed!
And love, afraid,
Patterned, inlaid
With sensible advices,
Grows pallid in the sickly air
Of wisdom;
Like grass pressed down too long
Beneath a seasoned board.
MARTHA BANNING THOMAS