We all know of the days when the senses are
Burdened with their own knowledge, and are
Unable to see what is higher, for the
Fear of overflowing.
And on that day I am as indifferent to
The suffering of Achilles, as to
All iambs, wise words and bright notes, which might
Float by my fleshy prison.
And am gripped only by the fear, that I
Cannot shoulder the torrent of what is higher, as it
Smashes into my frail baseness, and
Straight through my tired soul.
These days tell you about man, that he:
Really knows only that which he makes, and he
Makes only what he already knows, while the
Muse taunts him from behind the rest.
His art cannot compel favour from
Those days of creativity’s kingdom lost, for they
Know not from where this magic came, only
That they did not make it, and so:
That they will never know it.