With the old childish speculations
And unexplaining explanations:
Trusting in old worn-out traditions,
Or newly-minted superstitions,
Which prove to be, when tested, naught
But bastard spawn of ancient thought;
Nothing we see in truth's pure light,
But all in falsehood's hues bedight;
The cup from life's pure fount decline
To drug ourselves with poisoned wine;
Curse fate which does but give us scope
To hang ourselves with our own rope;
With all that we can use or need
Grasping at more with sateless greed;
Ever, though mocked and mortified,
Parading with a peacock's pride;
Matching brave words with coward deeds,
Fettering our souls with craven creeds;
For ever forging chains to bind
In straiter bondage heart and mind.
Dreams within dreams and dreams within them
We spin and never cease to spin them.
The victims ever of illusions.
And mocking protean delusions:
The playthings of ironic fate.
Dreaming we live and love and hate;
Striving though strife brings naught but pain,
Hoping though all our hopes are vain;
Seeking for what we may not find,
Wayward and roving as the wind;
Shadows for ever we pursue,
And still the bootless chase renew;
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