The incoherent sorceries of men
Who dance before a monstrous Axe and Pen,
Waving the fetiches of words, and then
Censure the dance with pedestals of gauze
Cleverly imitating rock, and laws
Whose opaque sureness broods above their cause.
When irony will cease to be obscure
To men whose eyes resent the cloudy lure
That ends their tiny clarities, with pure
And forming mists of words, then men will climb