That glass of water you hold to my lips, Had I my lenses, would reveal to us Not limpid clarity as we suppose— Pure water—but a seething, striving horde Of animalcules lashing dragon-tails Propelled by springs and coils and hairlike fronds Like whales athwart the oceans of the globe. The optic lens is like a slicing sword. It multiplies the world, or it divides— We see the many in the one, as here, We see the segments of what once seemed smooth, Rough pits and craters on a lady’s skin, Or fur and scales along her gleaming hair.
