Of strength, then, boast thee not, man. Seek wrath to appease.
The axe is nothing daunted, seeing boughs of trees;
But, one by one, hews through them all; their end foresees.100
The axe sets not its trenchant edge to lop off leaves;
’Tis not the silky down of thistles that it cleaves.
A flame is not abashed, though many thorns collect;
Whole herds of sheep can never butcher’s knife deflect.
To inward idea’s power the outward sign must yield.
That power, ’tis, makes revolve the heavens’ vast starry field.
The sphere, the circling firmament, consider now.