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Now I have come to reasonAnd cast my schoolboy clout,Disorder I see is without,And the mind must sweat a poisonKeener than Thessaly's brew;A pus that, discharged not thence,Gangrenes the vital senseAnd makes disorder true.It is certain we shall attainNo life till we stamp on allLife the tetragonalPure symmetry of brain.
I felt, in my scorningOf common poet's talk,As arrogant as the hawkWhen he mounts above the morning."Behold man's droll appearance,Faith wriggling upon his hooks,Chin-deep in Eternal FluxAngling for reassurance!"I care not if he retorts—"Of all that labour and wiveAnd worship, who would giveA fiddlestick for these thoughts
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