Where more is meant than meets the ear.

Or call up him that left half told The story of Cambuscan bold.

When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the rustling leaves With minute drops from off the eaves.

But, O sad Virgin, that thy power Might raise Musaeus from his bower, Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as warbled to the string, Drew Iron tears down…

As has been said...it is impossible to make clear the aims of a work of art by means of words.

Philosophers are often like little children, who first scribble random lines on a piece of paper with their pencils, and now ask an adult 'What is that?' (p.19…

But if you say: 'How am I to know what he means, when I see nothing but the signs he gives?' then I say: 'How is he to know what he means, when he has nothing …