The painter working had thought: skull

High above black brows, shaven and high,

And the ears close, the ironic lips full

But drawn down, something stone in the eye.

"My old bald pate," wrote bald old Montaigne,

Where the painter sets before you a face

Not perfect but my own." Thus one line

In his journal, putting himself in his place.

Though the gods troubled Plato to be humane,

His daemons did no good to Socrates.

But wit, humility, and hot food renew Montaigne.

In my short time, he says, I do as I please.

When I dance, I dance, and when I sleep I sleep,

And in an Orchard, when I walk alone,

I bring the world's new strange occurrences

To show them how the trees have grown.

But there were the Children to be taught,

And Warre and Disobedience put down.

All swarmeth with Commentaries, he thought.

Yet are we not from Authours grown?

Reformers I hate, yet hate to hear it

When of rich or mean the report is of excess.

Godamercy our weake and joy-diminishing spirit

That dare not use well what it must possess!

Not to plunge Mind, he said, but take delight.

Not lose but find itself. Under the bone

Under the old bald pate, what worlds of thought,

O most imperfect, but Montaigne his own.

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