You ask of my companions.
Hills, sir, and the sundown, 
and a dog large as myself, 
that my father bought me. 
They are better than beings 
because they know, but do not tell; 
and the noise in the pool 
at noon excels my piano. 
I have a brother and a sister; 
my mother does not care for thought, 
and father, too busy with his briefs 
to notice what we do. 
He buys me many books, 
but begs me not to read them, 
because he fears they joggle the mind. 
They are religious, except me, 
and address an eclipse ev'ry morning, 
whom they call their "Father." 
But I fear my story fatigues you.

I would like to learn.
Could you tell me how to grow, 
or is it unconveyed, 
like melody or witchcraft?