Of cloven feet on hollow ground,—
And after by the friendly stove
Sit peacefully and sup of love.
(3)
No doubt he'd once had eyes to see
Through mill-stones to the mystery
That mill-stones might perhaps intend
If there were Ends beyond the end—
But now he had no plague of eyes.
There was a way of being wise
That was not wisdom: one might love
Too loftily and fall above
As well as one might fall below.
And there were things a man might know
That were not knowledge either.
Truth
For instance.
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