The Stupid God has made of me a thrall
From time to time, as happens to near all--
Indeed, to everyone that I recall--
So I perhaps should not so badly take
It that I thinking’s glories might forsake
And deeply drink as I would fool’s thirst slake.
But I well know the peril in that path,
How swiftly thralldom suffers under wrath,
How what is drunk becomes not gentle bath
But raging flood that sweeps much good away
And drowns it such that nothing can allay
The fear and pain it brings; they ever stay
In place once they may be admitted in,
Never ending after they begin.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment