pity his how illimitable plight
who dies to be at any moment born—
some for whom crumbs of colour can create
precision more than angels fear to learn
and even fiends:or, if he paints with sound,
newly one moving cadence may release
the fragrance of a freedom which no mind
contrives(but certainly each spirit is)
and partially imagine whose despair
when every silence will not make a dream
speak;or if to no millionth metaphor
opens the simple agony of time
—small wonder such a monster’s fellowmen
miscalled are happy should his now go then