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 fool’s pots;
And no man’s watching, wise and long,
Would ever stare them into song.
Thorns burn to a consistent ash, like man;
A splendid cleanser for the frying-pan:
And those who leap from pan to fire
Should this brave opposite admire.
All those large dreams by which men long live well
Are magic-lanterned on the smoke of hell;
This then is real, I have implied,
A painted, small, transparent slide.
These the inventive can hand-paint at leisure,
Or most emporia would stock our measure;
And feasting in their dappled shade
We should forget how they were made.
Feign then what’s by a decent tact believed,
And act that state is only so conceived,
And build an edifice of form
For house where phantoms may keep warm.
Imagine, then, by miracle, with me,
(Ambiguous gifts, as what gods give must be)
What could not possibly be there,
And learn a style from a despair.
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