Is this a/an WORD which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me WORD thee.
I have thee not, and yet I WORD thee still.
Art thou not, WORD vision, sensible
To feeling as to WORD? Or art thou but
A/An WORD of the mind, a/an WORD creation,
WORD from the WORD-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I WORD.
Thou marshal`st me the way that I was going,
And such a/an WORD I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the WORD o` the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of WORD,
Which was not so before. There`s no such thing:
It is the WORD business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o`er the one half-world
Nature seems dead, and wicked WORD abuse
The curtain`d sleep; witchcraft WORD
Pale WORD`s offerings; and wither`d Murther,
Alarum`d by his sentinel, the WORD,
Whose howl`s his watch, thus with his stealthy WORD,
With Tarquin`s WORD strides, towards his design
Moves like a/an WORD...