The Human Progress

it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
That hard narrow box, but moving quickly
Bright fiction inside, full of dull faces
It paces, for a long path it traces
A wrath calling, fleeing falling thickly
And the rain conceals the passing dark
And its light reveals naught you could mark
Inside looking it goes around, around
But its many eyes, dim look only inside
By some shibboleth its facts ratified
Though it must keep its belly upon the ground
Found still running the lines of its course
Shout at it lumbering, till you're full hoarse
But it heard not lest some gave pull to the reins
Best ride it while you must, or just while you can
Chide, chuff, tisk the many colored man
Or ignore in passing each ignominious strain
Of where it says it must go, or what is there
Of the dark dewed things that pass in the air
Its great circle must pass in its broad walled way
The intoxicating rhythm, the purpling sky
Those who never seek but always ask why
Streaking into night, does it move toward day?
Or fey, does it know aught but a three fold thought
Of want, desire, of the highest spot?
Its lot, to yet contain all detestable things
To love what it loves, to glory in its stains
Though its crimes follow as so many trains
To spurn but the soul that might gain wings
Pressed hard to find a place in that ball
Running for its life to nowhere at all.
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:
the cathedral

No comments:

Post a Comment

Messages left under the doormat will be promptly decoded and a response may be issued.