As all you seers
and your years of seeing
Have not reduced a jot the pain of being,
And sum of all your saying nothing settles,
(As lofty words do not become us mortals),
If words must be our mad preoccupation,
Regard the poets' sweet communication.
How in their plaintive joys and musicked keening
They tease a rainbow of a doubtful meaning,
Provide us, in their rhapsodies of words,
A sweet nonsense of notes and rests and chords.
Philosophy, spare us your fang and tooth!
We are not creatures born to know the truth.
Your volumes sorely test our souls and time.
Story not, if you can't story us in rhyme.