Poem:
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
to feeling as to sight? Or art thou but
a dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding form the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marrshall'st me the way that I was going,
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o'th'other sense,
Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of bleed,
Which was…
