I Wept Not — So To Stone

Pure Essence, And Pure Matter, And The Two Joined Into One Were Shot Forth Without Flaw, Like Three Bright Arrows From A Three-string Bow.

O Conscience, Upright And Stainless, How Bitter A Sting To Thee Is A Little Fault!

The Path To Paradise Begins In Hell.

As The Geometer Intently Seeks To Square The Circle, But He Cannot Reach, Through Thought On Thought, The Principle He Needs, So I Searched That Strange Sight.

O You, Who In Some Pretty Boat, Eager To Listen, Have Been Following Behind My Ship, That Singing Sails Along Turn Back To Look Again Upon Your Own Shores; Tempt Not The Deep, Lest Unawares, In Losing Me, You Yourselves Might Be Lost. The Sea I Sail Has Never Yet Been Passed; Minerva Breathes, And Pilots Me Apollo, And Muses Nine Point Out To Me The Bears. You Other Few Who Have Neck Uplifted Betimes To The Bread Of Angels Upon Which One Lives And Does Not Grow Sated, Well May You Launch Your Vessel Upon The Deep Sea.