And a sound as far the hairs can sense,
Did give leave for widened eyes deceive,
Who would know then this joke recompense?
This lie I call my pursuit of ought receive,

Only to realise a path whose rocks swept
Through the banishing fog of utmost vine,
Towers before me; if not so God is left,
Now there’s a story I tell, when we run,

To no end at all: a breath and eyes move,
To no end at all, clearance at fog’s depart,
To no end at all; his pain is mine to soothe,
To no end at all. Then I said be all but ought.

%d bloggers like this: