This last pain for the damned the Fathers found: "They knew the bliss with which they were not crowned," Such, but on earth, let me foretell, Is all, of heaven or of hell.
Man, as the prying housemaid of the soul, May know her happiness by eye to hole: He's safe; the key is lost; he knows Door will not open, nor hole close.
"What is conceivable can happen too," Said Wittgenstein, who had not dreamt of you; But wisely, if we worked it long We should forget where it was wrong:
Those thorns are crowns which, woven into knots, Crackle under and soon boil fools' pots; And no man's watching, wise and long, Would ever stare them into song.
Thorns burn to a consistent ash, like man; A splended cleanser for the frying-pan: And those who leap from pan to fire should this brave opposite admire. 明續..
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